Relapse
by radculas
Summary: Sherlock kept himself clean for years and with John's help it seemed to be working just fine...Until Moriarty discovered his weakness and decides to plunge Sherlock into relapse. Post-Baskerville. Warnings: Drug abuse
1. Chapter 1

The horrid day started as one of those rare peaceful mornings. They had just solved a case two days ago,and the residents of 221B Bakerstreet were once again surrounded by peace, comfort, and silence. Remembering the recent adventures they had, John pondered how to write his new installment in his blog. Sherlock on the other hand, was trying to keep himself busy by searching for a new topic to experiment or research on. Something interesting enough to preoccupy him until a new client approached the consulting detective.

John peeked over his newspaper and silently turned his gaze toward the book shelf which was placed along the wall behind Sherlock's favorite leather chair. John thought that Sherlock was looking for a book because he's been hovering there for quite a while.

"What are you looking for…" but John's voice trailed away before he could finish the sentence.

Sherlock, dressed in his usual blue gown, was leaning against the bookshelf, head bowed down. His shoulders were heaving. "Sherlock?" he called out, slightly alarmed by the sight. John frowned and placed the papers to the side. He raised himself up and took a step toward Sherlock. John noticed that Sherlock was gripping the edge of the bookshelf firmly with his shaking hands. His long fingers were tensed and the knuckles white. John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, and tried to peel him away from the bookshelf. The tall man's face was blocked from John's view. John's instinct as a man of medicine quickly told him that something was wrong with Sherlock.

As John tugged at the lean figure, Sherlock's knees buckled and he tumbled down to the floor. John caught him just in time before he hit the ground.

"Sherlock," John called out. He kneeled down beside the heaving man and held his hands around Sherlock's head. Sherlock was sweating like mad. Drops of sweat were forming on his forehead. He was paler than usual, and his teeth were chattering. Lips unhealthily purple, brows furrowed in pain, and his eyes unfocused. "Sherlock!" John placed his hand on Sherlock's forehead. It was burning hot. Sherlock's clouded eyes shifted toward John. The former army doctor placed Sherlock's head down on the carpet floor and stretched his neck so that he will be able to breathe easier. Shallow breathing, incredibly high pulse, dilated pupils, unnatural perspiration, high temperature, and twitching hands… John reached for his mobile phone, ready to call the ambulance, but Sherlock's pale, clammy hands flew at John's arm and grasped it tightly.

"…Cold" He rasped heavily, and squeezed John's wrist so hard that, John had to grit his teeth from the pain.

"Alright…alright…" John breathed to himself and then to Sherlock, "don't worry, I' m going to get help right now, hang in there." And started punching the numbers on his phone hastily but Sherlock shook his head and pulled John's phone down weakly.

"Don't…" John yanked the phone free from Sherlock's grasp.

"Don't be ridiculous, this is serious Sherlock. I may be a doctor but I can't treat you if I don't know what's happening to your body right now. Whatever this is, it isn't normal." Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head again. Beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face. His hair matted heavily over his forehead. He opened his mouth and murmured something weakly. John frowned.

"What?" he said and leaned closer to Sherlock's mouth. The detective shuddered and said weakly,

"Withdrawal….symptoms." John straightened up.

"You WHAT?" He exclaimed.


	2. Chapter 2

It was two days ago. Sherlock was racing through a vast abandoned warehouse, perusing a serial killer, with a flashlight in one hand and a Sig Sauer in the other as Lestrade and his men were sweeping the most recent crime scene the killer has provided . It happened just half an hour ago, causing a death of a young woman. Sherlock and John had the head start. John was searching another warehouse on the south of the one Sherlock was in. In either one of the warehouses, the killer was hiding. They had chased him from a street a few blocks away from here. Sherlock was confident that he had the killer cornered. It was only a matter of time before he was caught. There was nowhere to run. Sherlock had locked the only entrance to the warehouse from the inside with a padlock, and the only key to open it, was inside his coat pocket.

Sherlock roughly knocked over some card board boxes filled with dusty rubbish. He scanned the floor. No fresh foot prints where there. Just cement covered in dust. He switched his gaze upward and pointed his flash light toward his left.

"You're trapped in here. You might as well give up and save some energy." He called out. There was no reply. He edged closer to the center of the warehouse. His strained his ears. Just then, there was a large bang from behind him. Sherlock ducked. Someone had shot at him. The bullet barely missed Sherlock and skidded into one of the luggage abandoned in the warehouse. Head bowed down, Sherlock thrust his gun in front of him and ran to somewhere with better cover. Crouching behind a large shelf, Sherlock turned off his flashlight and strained his ears again. The only source of light was the faint moonlight leaking in from the slim windows high above.

Careful not to make any noise, he stood up slowly and peeked over the edge of the shelf. Nothing. He stood there for a while for what felt like minutes when he heard a clunk toward his right. He jerked his head to the direction of the noise when suddenly something grabbed Sherlock's neck from behind. The detective gawked and dropped his gun and flashlight. His hand flew to his neck, trying to pry the unknown hands away. He bent his back to ease the strain. He and the unknown figure bumped into the wall and the two fell down with a small "oof!" Sherlock scrambled across the dark, damp, icy cement floor, toward the Sig Sauer on the floor. Before he could reach it, a hand grabbed Sherlock's ankle and pulled him back. Another hand grabbed the back of Sherlock's coat collar and flipped him on his back. Light flashed into his face as the figure mounted on top of Sherlock. Sherlock covered his eyes from the light with his free hand. As his eyes grew accustomed to the bright light, Sherlock saw the face of the man who had attacked him and froze. Jim Moriarty was beaming down as him with blazing eyes.

For a moment there, Sherlock's face was frozen in surprise. Then, it gradually transformed into genuine hatred. His silver-blue eyes shined against the flash light and gazed straight towards Moriarty. The consulting criminal merely chimed "Hi" and steadied his gun at Sherlock's face. "You got the wrong warehouse."

"So you were behind it all along…I knew those killing methods were too clever for a man like him." Sherlock muttered more to himself than to Moriarty. Jim Moriarty smiled widened as he took the comment as a compliment.

"I'm so glad you came to this warehouse Sherlock. It makes things much easier. I mean, if _John Watson_ came in here instead, I would have had to go through all the troubles to knock him out, kidnap him, gag him, tie him, contact you, and all the other things." Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"What do you want with me, Moriarty?" Sherlock asked though he already knew what the answer will most likely be.

"Remember I said I was going to burn the heart out of you?" He paused for a second. "Well I have something exciting in mind and I'm in the middle of a big preparation at the moment. Well anyway," He stopped abruptly, licked his lips, and tilted his head slightly to his right and gazed down at Sherlock curiously.

"I had a little chat with your brother Iceman a few days ago while you were running around in Baskerville." He leaned forward a little. "Interesting business by the way, fear toxin? What was it like?" Sherlock didn't reply. His lips were drawn tight. Slightly disappointed that Sherlock wasn't going to answer his question, Moriarty decided to move on.

"Your brother told me some interesting things about you, Sherlock." Sherlock didn't change his expression. Moriarty shifted his hazel eyes down toward Sherlock's left. Careful not to lower his gun away from Sherlock's face, he placed the flashlight to his side and reached for Sherlock's left arm. Sherlock jerked his arm away. The consulting criminal raised his eyebrows and chucked his chin at the gun. Sherlock breathed in heavily as Moriarty rolled up Sherlock's sleeves. He held the flashlight between his teeth and examined the detective's pale arm. A smile curled up as he saw Sherlock's arm marked with old scars from his days of substance abuse.

"I have a little something for you." Moriarty said merrily and tucked his gun into his back pocket. At that moment, Sherlock thrust his arms up to grab Moriarty but the criminal hit the side of Sherlock's head with his flashlight. There was a dull thud and Sherlock's eyes watered. His ear, where the flashlight had struck, pounded and burned.

"Whoa, whoa… jeez." Moriarty shook his head and placed a hand in his inner pocket. He pulled out a small black rectangular box about the size of a television remote controller. Sherlock blinked the tears out of his eyes and stared at the box as Moriarty flipped it open. There was an injection needle inside it. Sherlock froze. Moriarty placed the flashlight between his teeth again as his flicked the injection needle to get rid of the bubbles in the contents. Sherlock squirmed to escape from Moriarty's hold but the consulting criminal squeezed Sherlock's torsos between his knees to the point that Sherlock grimaced in pain. Moriarty squirted some of the colorless liquid to adjust the dosage. When he was ready he showed it triumphantly to Sherlock.

"Say hi to your old friend." Sherlock stared at the liquid swiveling inside the container. He blinked away from it uninterestedly_. I am strong_…he told himself. _I'm strong enough to ignore it. _

"I'm clean." He said blankly. "I don't even smoke."

"But you did when Irene Adler _died_…Funny how Mycroft keeps a lookout for you in case of _danger nights_. Do clean people have _danger nights_?" Moriarty sniffed. Sherlock had to admit that he had a point. Once you get addicted, you are never truly free from its grip. Any moment you could plunge back to the life of dope. "It's morphine in case you're curious." Moriarty explained.

"I don't care." Sherlock said flatly. "It's behind me."

"Oh come on, let's see about that now, shall we?"

"_No_." Sherlock squirmed again. Moriarty grabbed Sherlock's unrolled armed but he shook it away from Moriarty's grasp.

"I made this especially for you. It's the same brand that you used to take…from the same dealers that you used to get it from. I even researched the right amount of dosage so you wouldn't be under or over dosed. I know you're body system's pretty much immune to slight dosages so I made it strong enough for you." He explained all this through his clenched teeth as he fought Sherlock's flailing limbs. Madness danced in his eyes. "Isn't that …_sweet_?" He exclaimed as he finally managed to pin Sherlock down.

"You think you can get to me? By feeding me drugs?" Sherlock laughed "You know that my urge only takes place when there's no case. As soon as I have something to work on, all of this will be unnecessary."

"Yes but you see, right now, as we speak, Johnny boy's probably caught the killer. Then, case closed, Sherlock. What are you going to do tomorrow? Any plans? I'm sure Lestrade will be pretty busy questioning and writing reports for a while. And clients only come to your place at an average of one or two a week. Can you handle the spare time without these for a whole day tomorrow?" He flicked his eyes toward the injection in his hand.

"I'll keep myself busy." He said sternly.

"Oh I don't know…this is a pretty impressive dosage, Sherlock, have ever thought about the withdrawals? I calculated the dosage so it will be quite painful for you." He smirked. Sherlock's eyes wavered for a fraction of a second. He gave another wriggle in hopes of escaping Moriarty's grip for the umpteenth time, but Moriarty's had enough chatting. He grabbed the top of Sherlock's hair roughly and pushed his head down. There was another dull thud as the back of Sherlock's head violently contacted the cement floor. For the second time tonight, Sherlock saw sparks swim in his eyes along with tears. The bridge of his nose stung as the pain traveled from the back of his head to his brain. For a moment, Sherlock thought he was going to black out, but he managed to hang on. Moriarty twisted Sherlock's head to the side and pulled down the blue scarf to reveal his neck. Realizing what he was trying to do, Sherlock grabbed for Moriarty's wrists but it was too late. The needle punctured Sherlock's pale neck and entered his vein. Moriarty pushed the toxin in.

Sherlock froze at the spot, his hands still in the air, his eyes wide with disbelief. This wasn't happening to him. He clenched his teeth. There was a moment of silence. Moriarty slowly pulled the needle and placed it back in the box, and the box back into his pocket. He let go of Sherlock's head. Sherlock turned straight back to Moriarty with hate in his eyes. For a moment, Moriarty wondered if he injected the right substance because Sherlock showed no sign of change. His breathing was normal, his eyes were clear.

Then, suddenly, Sherlock winced and inhaled sharply. His hands dropped to his side and he shuddered. The drug had kicked in. The detective tried to fight off the drug by shaking his head and breathing deeply through his nose but Moriarty can already see his long fingers starting to tremble. Despite his efforts to keep his breathing steady, it started to become shallower and shallower. A sense of dizziness swept over him and he had to turn sideways and press his cheek against the cool cement to calm down. The weird sensation made him nostalgic. The cement felt as if it was melting around him. Moriarty smiled smugly as he took Sherlock's pulse. It was pumping like a rabbit's heart. Sherlock opened his eyes wide and tried to lift himself up. No, he couldn't succumb to this.

But Moriarty gently eased Sherlock down and rummaged through the detective's coat pocket. He pulled out what he wanted; the keys to open the padlock.

"Bye" he said with a charming smile and walked towards the door, singing merrily, _"Sherlock Holmes is falling down, falling down, Sherlock Holmes is falling down, my fair Watson."_ And as he chuckled to himself, Moriarty opened the door, and left.


	3. Chapter 3

Left in the fuzzy darkness, Sherlock's consciousness was drifting. He somehow managed to roll to his side. The consulting detective groaned. His heart was beating hard against his chest and his lungs felt like they were shrinking more and more every time he inhaled. His limbs felt like they were underwater, floating, and incapable of quick response. The nostalgic sensation revived a part of Sherlock that he thought was long dead. It started off as a small shadowy figure in the corner of his mind.

_No, go back. Go back where you came from. I don't need you anymore. I don't want you anymore. _

Sherlock commanded in his head. He shut his eyes tight. The shadow grew bigger and bigger, started to wrap its dark grasp around the rest of Sherlock's consciousness. The sensation sent an awkward tingle through Sherlock's brain and then false warmth bloomed inside of him. He used to consider this experience as joy back then, but now, he knew better. The sane part of Sherlock, the unemotional, practical side of him demanded to regain his control.

_Forget that feeling Sherlock. Ignore it. You know this is all a fake. Get yourself together._

Sherlock twitched his fingers and drew it closer to his body. He rummaged his hands around to find out which side was down and which side was up. Gravity left Sherlock. He felt like floating. The cement floor was as if it vanished. He felt like he was in a state of a free fall.

_That's right. You have things to do. You need to find John. See if he's okay. _

Sherlock rolled on his stomach. He looked up and opened his eyes wide. Now he felt like he was in a rocking boat. The surface of the cement floor swayed and rippled. He pushed against the floor. His upper body slowly lifted but before his arms could stretch fully, the muscles suddenly felt like they were liquefied. The growing shadowy figure was telling his muscles to relax. It was aborting Sherlock's. He fell back down flat onto the ground.

_I'll just close my eyes for ten seconds. If I relax my body once, maybe this will all disappear. I might gain control._

He reasoned to himself and slowly shut his eyes. The shadow grew larger all of a sudden and started to intrude the sanest, most secure part of his mind. Its large hands started to tweak the lock leading to his mind palace. A voice, slightly faint than before, rang in his head desperately.

_No, no, Sherlock. You know you shouldn't do that. You know that. You know that __**really**__ well. It's a trick. You're falling for it Sherlock. _

Sherlock knew it was a trick. Of course he did. He wasn't an idiot. He wasn't the common man. The morphine was doing this to him. He knew what was taking over him, but strangely, he was fine being tricked for once. Falling for it wasn't so bad after all. He closed his eyes. The shadow broke into his mind palace, flooding through the entrance door, heading straight at the last untainted part of Sherlock.

_Sherlock, are you listening to me? Sherlock, you can't do this to me. Not again. Not to me, not to Mycroft, not to Lestrade, not to Mrs. Hudson, not to John…_

The shadow grasped the logical Sherlock. Then, the shadow solidified and finally revealed its form. Its hazel eyes twinkled. His trim dark blue suits round collar, slick black hair. Sherlock knew it all too well.

_Moriarty. _


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He gritted his teeth.

_Fight it off, Sherlock. Do you hear me? _

The voice was growing fainter and fainter as Moriarty clasped its hands around the Sherlock in his head. Sherlock felt another wave of numbness hit through his body. It felt so calm, so comfortable, with no responsibility, no pride, no mind games, no need to prove his intellect, nothing.

_Sherlock can you hear me? _

The voice squeaked. Sherlock's mouth twitched. He lifted himself up and slowly came into a kneeling position. Then, he placed a hand on his knee and heaved. The voice grew slightly louder.

_Get up, get up. _

Sherlock clasped the edge of the shelf. Another wave…this time stronger. It ran though him from the top of his head down along the spine. He exhaled sharply. He saw a drop of sweat fall from the corner of his eyes. It splashed to the cement floor. Moriarty looked around him and smiled. Dragging the logical, pragmatic Sherlock around by his neck, he started to rummage through his mind palace. Moriarty viciously flipped over files, ripped maps, and shredded documents. The Sherlock in his head fought against the grasp of Moriarty and yelled,

_Hurry!_

Sherlock lumbered to his feet and leaned against the shelf. He took a step forward. His knees wobbled.

_Please hurry, you idiot!_

He took another step forward. He can see the Sig Sauer and the flashlight on the floor, just as he had remembered. Sherlock's heart felt as if it was going to burst or jump out through his throat. He inhaled deeply and placed a hand to his chest. The more he sucked air at one go, the more nauseating it was but he knew breathing properly was vital to fight off the drug. It was boring of course. Breathing is always boring but it was needed.

_I'm not an idiot._

He replied to the Sherlock inside of him. Moriarty stopped his hands and looked up. His expression turned into a scowl.

_I know you're not, so show me. _

The Sherlock inside his head smiled up at the real Sherlock. Something flared up inside him. It was something completely opposite of warmth. Though it was weak, it felt smooth, solid, and sharp. The sensation was just enough to make Moriarty flinch. The consulting detective hurried toward the gun and the flashlight before Moriarty could do anything harmful. He fell on his knees and grasped the fallen tools. He safely holstered and gun and fumbled to turn the flashlight on. His hands were trembling far worse than he had imagined. Another drop of sweat trickled between his eyes and down along his chin. Sherlock swiped it off briskly. His limbs were starting to regain its mobility. As he turned the switch on, the light temporarily blinded him. The imaginary Moriarty took advantage of it and flung the imaginary Sherlock against the hard walls of his mind palace. Sherlock's hand increased its tremble and the flashlight fell. He leaned forward to grab it but his head suddenly grew heavy. He swayed forward. The Sherlock in his head fought back, kicking Moriarty away.

_Hurry! _

Sherlock snatched the flashlight and heaved up. He turned toward the door and paced towards it weakly, crashing into the junk inside the warehouse from time to time. He was going to get out of here. Find John, find Lestrade, and go back to his flat. He couldn't lie on the warehouse floor until someone came looking for him and found him in a spineless state. He had to show everyone that those days were behind. He was clean. He couldn't succumb to the warmth and most of all, John should not know about this.

Before he stumbled out of the warehouse door, Sherlock wiped as much sweat off from his face and tried to level his breathing. He still felt like he was floating and his limbs had completely lost its sharp reflexes but the Moriarty inside his head was restrained by the logical part of Sherlock now. The most of his brain had regained its control over his body.

He let the cool breeze greet him and he sucked in the fresh air, free of dust. Police cars were already flashing in front of him. He saw shadows of police officers among the lights of right, blue and yellow. Sherlock straightened up as much as his weak half-numb body would let him. His heart thumped. He can hear blood rushing in his ears. Looking as sharp as possible, he strode toward the familiar shadows of what seemed like John and Lestrade, trying to look as if nothing had happened.

* * *

><p><em>*Thanks for reading so far ;) <em>

_Now that the action and the build up part of the story's done, I'll be moving on the more emotion-based part of the story._

_Here are some things to look forward to_

_1) a look into Sherlock's psyche as well as how he came to using drugs. _

_2) some ideas on how he had managed to come out of it with...some help from Lestrade. _

_3)Sherlock's struggle to keep John away from seeing the nastier aspects of Sherlock's past life _

_4)more intellectual/emotional conflict with Moriarty and his past self_


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade was tucking the handcuffed killer into the back of a police car as John watched. Sherlock's shoulders tensed a little. He hoped that John would not notice the slight tremors and the paleness. After their adventures in Baskerville, and seeing Sherlock suffer from drugged fear, John seemed to be more aware to the slight changes in Sherlock's expressions. John noticed Sherlock, and turned around. Lestrade closed the car door and looked up too. The killer was watching Sherlock through the window. The detective and the killer locked eyes for a fraction of a second. It could have been Sherlock's morphine-deranged imagination, but he could've sworn that the killer smiled smugly at him.

"There you are," John's voice rang in his ears. Sherlock switched his attention to his flat mate. "I was just thinking of going to get you. I thought you were still looking for him." He nudged his head toward the car indicating the killer. Sherlock turned his coat collar up and brushed his sleeves.

"Actually, I was just looking around the place. I found some interesting stock." He shrugged.

"Oh." John said with a slightly unconvinced look.

"So, another case closed." Lestrade said, with his arms crossed. "All thanks to our favorite _sociopath_." Lestrade couldn't help teasing Sherlock when he thanked the consulting detective. Usually, Sherlock answered these kinds of remarks with a snide comment wishing Lestrade luck with his relationship with his wife. However, morphine blocked Sherlock from coming up with a clever thing to say. All he could do was flash a weak smile. The Detective Inspector's brow twitched in surprise at this, but before he could assess anything from it, Sherlock cleared his throat and slapped John's back. Just a little too hard, perhaps, since John let out a silent yelp of surprise.

"Well, that's that, if you need me again, call straight away." He said briskly and turned on his heel to go to the main road to find a taxi ride home. John started to trot after him but Lestrade called after him.

"Sherlock, I'll give you a ride. You'll have to walk for a while to find a taxi around here." Sherlock dreaded this moment. The more he stayed with Lestrade, the more likely he will notice that something is wrong with Sherlock. Sure, John is his flat mate and the two know each other well but John has never seen Sherlock while under the use of morphine. Even if John was a trained doctor, Sherlock's impressive acting skill will be able to fool him for a good time, but with Lestrade, it wasn't that easy

Lestrade has seen Sherlock use morphine many times. In fact, they first met when Lestrade was running a drug bust in an abandoned facility where he found Sherlock in a drug addled state. Even after that, Lestrade had caught Sherlock with a series of toxic substance. The only reason why Sherlock was running around freely right now was because he had promised Lestrade and Mycroft that he will commit himself to rehabilitation, in exchange for being excused of time in jail. Sherlock turned slowly back and smiled,

"Thank you."

They drove silently in Lestrade's Corolla. The emergency light was taken off from the roof of the car. Lestrade was in the driver's seat, John in the passenger. Sherlock was in the back seat, starring out the window with a blank look. The passing streetlights were mesmerizing. The logical side of him knew that there was nothing particularly spectacular about those aligned LED lights but the drugged side of him was itching to make Sherlock press his face against the window and chase the lights as it skidded across the window frame. John and Lestrade were talking about something. Their voices sounded like they were underwater to Sherlock. It took a while to realize that John was talking to him.

"….right, Sherlock?" Sherlock blinked and peeled his eyes away from the lights.

"What?"

"You said that the killer's methods were too elaborate. What did you mean by that exactly?" Lestrade asked as he turned the steering wheel to make the next corner. Sherlock didn't reply immediately. Moriarty's gleaming face flashed in his head. He shook it away.

"Oh that…that was nothing, I guess. He just read one too many crime thrillers. Come to think of it, it _was _a bit clichéd. " and as he said this, another face of Moriarty, this time looking annoyed flashed in his head. After that, the rest of the way to Baker Street was complete silence.

Once Lestrade's care came to a stop in front of their flat, John thanked the detective inspector and hopped out. Lestrade nodded firmly in reply. Sherlock on the other hand, fumbled a little with the door before he opened it awkwardly. He slid his foot out of the car when Lestrade turned back worryingly.

"You okay, Sherlock?" He asked with a look of mild amuse. Sherlock shrugged, trying to look as careless as possible but his heart was thumping like mad. He hoped Lestrade wouldn't notice the heart beating so loudly.

"Thanks for the ride." He said shakily and climbed out, closing the door behind him.

…

As John entered their flat, he pulled off his jacket and slumped into his chair. He expected Sherlock to do the same. That's what they usually did after a tiring case. They would arrive home, fatigued but too hyped up to sleep. They would sit across each other. John would ask how Sherlock managed to solve the mystery this time. Sherlock would sigh, ask John how he could not understand when it is all so simple, and elaborately explain how he reached every single one of his conclusions. This time, it was different. Sherlock clambered in after John, closed the door behind him and slid off his scarf lazily. Then he shrugged the coat away and threw it on the couch. He usually hung his coat carefully but today, he seemed too tired to care. John watched as Sherlock stumbled upstairs without a word. After a while, he heard a faint sound of running water and then a thump as Sherlock's bedroom door closed. John shrugged and stood up to make himself a cup of tea. Perhaps, Sherlock was slightly cross that he couldn't apprehend the killer himself.

Sherlock splashed cold water on his face. He looked up and saw himself in the mirror. His face had a touch of unhealthy blue and blood shot eyes. His hands had stopped trembling but his stomach was swirling instead. He heaved a sigh and tried to calm himself down. Despite his miserable state, he wasn't feeling as bad as he had thought. The worst of the drug had ebbed off, leaving Sherlock slightly tipsy and nauseated. He will be fine. He told himself. It's nothing serious enough to tell John.

Sherlock thought of going downstairs again to have a cup of tea with John but he wasn't confident he could sip even a single drop of the beverage without throwing up all over John. So, instead, he drifted into his bedroom and collapsed into his bed. He knew he was sweaty and his cloths dusty, but he couldn't get his body up. With his long legs half hanging from the bed, he pressed his face to his sheets. He was floating again. He touched the part of his neck where the needle had entered. As he remembered the sensation when the morphine kicked in, his lungs shuddered, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he drifted into blackness.

…

_Hey…hey…_

Something was patting Sherlock's cheeks roughly. Sherlock stirred.

_Wake up. Wake up. I want to talk to you._

He cracked open his eyes. Everything was incredibly bright and white and very familiar. Sherlock was on his back looking straight up at the white bright sky of his mind palace. He only comes here when he is either meditating his thoughts or when he is dreaming.

_Am I dreaming?_

He asked. He didn't need any answer. He already knew it when he saw Moriarty's face looking down upon him.

_For heaven's sake… Get out of here._

He growled. Moriarty shrugged.

_I still have another hour or two until time. _

_What time?_

_Until you wake up in excruciating pain. _

_I… What? _

Moriarty offered a hand to help Sherlock up. Sherlock ignored the gesture and dragged himself up to his feet. He looked around the place. His mind palace, usually organized and neat with countless aisles of drawers with files inside them, were in a complete state of mess at the moment.

_You have any idea how long it takes to put those back?_

Sherlock said to Moriarty with a bothered look. The consulting criminal kicked some of the fallen documents away.

_I found 5 full drawers with only files on substance abuse. You have a pretty impressive history. It's a surprise you're still alive. _

Sherlock ignored Moriarty and started to collect the fallen documents from the clean white floor.

_You liked it, didn't you? Come on, I know you did. _

Moriarty edged closer to Sherlock and nudged him with an elbow. Sherlock waved it away.

_Made you remember those days, didn't it? …Those days when you knew how to let go._

_Shut up._

_I know why a brilliant man like you can't keep yourself away from such a lowly habit. I know why you itch for the drug sometimes. _

_I said shut it._

_I know why…Because you want to be __**normal**__ just like all of them. You don't want to think. But your head doesn't let you does it? __**He**__ won't let you. _

Sherlock looked up to see what Moriarty was talking about. Moriarty was looking at a distance to his left. He turned to see his own figure lying in far side of the aisle. He was all ruffled and unconscious. It was his alter self, inside his head. The logical Sherlock, the unsentimental Sherlock, the Sherlock that keeps him going. Sherlock felt dread seeping in and settle down at the bottom of his stomach. If the logical Sherlock was knocked out, that means he was completely controlled by the drug at the moment. He stood up and stepped back from Moriarty.

_Don't worry, Sherlock. I'm not going to bite you. Why would I? You're me. I'm you. _

Sherlock laughed uneasily, unable to come up with any retorts.

_No, I mean it, Sherlock. Remember me?_

Sherlock frowned. The voice wasn't Moriarty. It sounded very familiar. It was deeper than Moriarty.

_Remember? We met five years ago when you first tried me._

_Oh hell…_

Sherlock muttered as it all came sense and he felt nauseous from his sick imagination. The figure was definitely Moriarty but the voice….the voice was his. He remembered. Sherlock remembered.

_Every time you injected yourself you drifted into here; your mind palace. You were too tired to think but the boredom was also tiring. So you made me remember? I'm your friend. I'm the only friend you'll ever have. Remember all those conversations we had? _

Sherlock remembered.

_They were normal conversations. Nothing advanced, nothing mind puzzling, no insults, no nothing. Just a pleasant 'Hi, how are you.' 'I'm fine, you?' …conversations you can never have in your real life. They were conversations that __**he**__ won't let you have._

Moriarty flourished toward the fallen logical Sherlock again. Sherlock shifted his glance uneasily at his fallen self and then back toward Moriarty, only to find that it wasn't Moriarty anymore. He was staring right back at himself.

_Let's talk._

He said with a smile. It was one of those manipulative smiles that Sherlock usually makes to Molly or anyone else when he's asking a favor. Sherlock shook his head.

_I don't need you anymore. _

The other Sherlock made a disappointed look.

_Come on, it's been a while. Let's catch up with each other. How's it been? _

Sherlock froze at his feet, his mouth half opened. In real life, if someone casually asked him "How's it been", Sherlock would reply something like

"That's a very vague question, where would you like me to start?"

But in here, he's allowed to be more obscure. He can just let go, be normal.

_I…It's…been…okay. _

He said uneasily. His face smiled back at him.

_Good, good. Have you been eating?_

_What?_

Sherlock asked blankly. Something flashed in the back of his head.

_I said have you been eating properly lately?_

Sherlock took a step back away from himself. There was something very familiar about that phrase. Someone had asked him a very similar question just a few days ago. Who was it?

_You look pale. You know it's not good for you. _

At these words, it all clicked in his head. Of course, it was John. John Watson, the ever constantly worried army doctor, the man who asks the most bizarre questions to Sherlock, the one person who can hold up a conversation with Sherlock for more than fifteen minutes. The man that has once asked him,

"How's it been" and laughed when Sherlock replied "That's a very vague question, where would you like me to start?" instead of _scowling_ like Donovan and the others.

_Shut up._

Sherlock whispered. The other Sherlock shook his head.

_You were so close, Sherlock. Come on, let's try again…_

But his voice trailed off and those all too familiar light blue eyes narrowed as a smile broke across his face.

_Then again, it looks like our time is up. _

…

Sherlock opened his eyes and gasped for air. He was back in his dark bedroom. His body was half hanging from the bed just as he had remembered it, but his joints and muscles felt like they were on fire. He was sweating all over. He tried to get up but a jolt of pain ran down between his shoulder blades. He screamed in his bed sheets, muffling the noise as much as possible to keep John from waking up. He panted and gritted his teeth. Groaning and huffing, he finally managed to get himself up. The drug had run out of his system and his body was screaming for it.

He scrambled for his drawer and stuck his hand into the very back where he kept an emergency stock for just in case. He hadn't touched it for years. He pulled out a freshly capped needle and a vial with a clear liquid swishing in it. Placing it on the top of the drawer, he kneeled and hastily undid his belt, pushed up his left sleeve and wrapped the belt around his upper arm, tightening it by pulling with his teeth. He groaned and shivers rand down his spine. A headache was starting to grow. Wincing, he filled the needle with efficiency and slapped his arm to make his vein visible. Then he roughly stabbed it. He let out a sigh of relief as he felt the drug rush through him soothingly. He pulled out the needle and slumped back. He undid the belt gingerly. He knew he shouldn't have done that without medical supervision.

It was always dangerous for a heavy addict to suddenly stop taking morphine. You could die of shock. What was important was to gradually decrease the amount every time he injected. It won't be fulfilling but just enough to sooth the pain. He looked down at the needle in his hand. His hand trembled. He shifted his eyes at the vial rolling at his side. He picked it up. It was more than half full. More than enough…maybe, just this once, maybe he could inject himself another additional dosage, just to relax …just this once…just this once…


	6. Chapter 6

_*Thanks for all the kind reviews I really, really appreciate it! _

_I'm trying to keep the morphine addiction facts straight but there are some blips here and there. I hope you don't mind...and thanks for the advice on tenses, yes, i do get them mixed up don't i ?:0 I'll try my best to fix them, thanks for the heads up!_

* * *

><p>For nearly 5 minutes, Sherlock stared at the injection needle in his hand. A pleasant feeling spread inside him, but it wasn't strong enough to satisfy him. It just made him hungry for more. He raised the needle, edged it closer to the vial in his other hand. Faint blue lights leaked into Sherlock's bedroom through the cracks of his curtain. He can hear birds twittering in the distance now. There was a soft thump from the corridor. John was up and he had just entered the bathroom to wash his face. Sherlock's face snapped up. He flung open the window and hurled the vial and the injection as far away as his weakened body could manage. He heard a faint sound of breaking glass somewhere in the distance.<p>

_Oh, look what you just did…_

A voice said teasingly in his head.

…

Just when John finished his scrambled eggs, Sherlock treaded down the stairs and entered the living room. He was freshly cleaned with his usual trim attire.

"Morning" John called. Sherlock's mouth twitched as he tried to coordinate his muscles to make a small smile, only to end up in an awkward grimace. He tried not to drop his gaze towards the food on John's plate. It created an unpleasant swirling sensation inside of him, making Sherlock want to run straight to the bathroom and hang his head over the toilet frame. He had his last dose of morphine two hours ago. He still had half a day before the effects wore off completely. He slumped into the couch as the wheels in his head turned slowly and reluctantly against the drug.

_Think…think…_

Though Moriarty declared that he did his research, the drug Moriarty gave him was not the brand Sherlock used to frequent. He either accidentally or deliberately injected Sherlock with the worst batch of morphine he could have provided. The side effects were tremendous, it was short lasting, and the after effects were absolutely horrid. _Maybe I could track down the market route of the drug and find Moriarty_. If Moriarty truly did get the drug from the same dealers as Sherlock's, he could just approach the man and question him. _What was the man's name again? Perhaps Lestrade could help me. He has the files and the records. How did Moriarty find out about all of this anyway? Oh yes, Mycroft, that's right…bloody Mycroft, what was he thinking…_ His thoughts trailed away.

John eyed Sherlock curiously. His flat mate was lying on the couch, the tip of his fingers placed together in his usual thinking position. He's never seen Sherlock so calm in between works. He was usually restless, constantly looking for something to work on. He shrugged. As long as Sherlock wasn't jumping around the room, demanding for a pack of cigarettes with a harpoon in his hand, John was fine. Just then, Sherlock's phone let out a beep. Someone had just mailed him. Sherlock slid his hands in his pocket without opening his eyes and lazily pulled out the phone. He tapped the screen and peered at it. His eyes widened for a while. It was Lestrade.

Body of 3rd victim found. Meet me at Bart's –GL

_Ah, of course._ _Oh Moriarty, Moriarty, how brilliant you are. I would have been so delighted if it wasn't happening to me. _Sherlock closed his eyes and chuckled to himself. The serial killer that they caught was responsible for 5 eaths. 4 of the victims were found at the crime scene but 1 body was missing. Moriarty knew that Sherlock was too strong to go into relapse with just one shot, but Moriarty couldn't visit Sherlock to inject him the drug over and over again. So what did he have to do? He simply made Sherlock take the drug by himself. Moriarty made Sherlock nostalgic with the sensation of the drug, and then the excruciating pain, giving Sherlock no choice but to take another dose of morphine. The consulting criminal even predicted that Sherlock would resist by destroying any remaining stock of drug he had at home. So what is Moriarty going to do next? Why of course, send Sherlock to the hospital, where all the narcotics are within his reach. Sherlock sat up to grab his coat. There was no way he was going to fall for such a trick. How ridiculous, how silly, how sloppily planned…but the Moriarty/Sherlock inside him tapped his brain.

_Remember, I'm still in here you know?_

Sherlock shook it away. He's just going to see the body. Make sure that his deductions weren't mistaken. John's back was turned toward Sherlock. He was washing the dishes.

"John," Sherlock called. "We're going to Bart's." It wasn't a question. It was a statement. John is coming. He's going to keep an eye on Sherlock, just in case.

…

"We found it in the Thames, just like you said." Lestrade explained. Sherlock peered down at the pale blue, half decomposed body. His eyes were distant. Molly hovered on the right of Sherlock and John on the left, but Lestrade lingered a few paces behind them, well away from the body. Lestrade could never get the hang of floaters, probably because it always reminded him of his childhood pet goldfish. He found it dead one day, floating in the bowl lifelessly, covered in white decomposing scales and its eyes agape. Sherlock used to have a pet goldfish too. Only it was eaten by his cat. Little Sherlock was so disappointed because he was planning on dissecting the fish.

"And again, you were right about Anderson being wrong. He wasn't poisoned to death." Lestrade muttered and he expected a cold "of course" or "obviously" from Sherlock but it didn't come.

"He was strangled to death…just like you said." Sherlock still didn't say anything. Lestrade expected Sherlock to jump up and down in arrogant joy and exclaim

"Aha, I was right, all along now, wasn't I?" He always did.

"Is there anything wrong?" John asked. He also sensed something unusual about Sherlock's aloofness.

"No, no, it's fine…all fine." Sherlock caught Molly's eyes. He flashed a reassuring smile. Molly froze at the spot. Sherlock walked briskly past the petrified coroner as he pulled off his elastic gloves. John followed Sherlock, eyeing worriedly at Molly before muttering,

"Thanks for the time, Molly." She barely managed to nod in reply.

Lestrade, John and Sherlock strode out of the morgue and into the corridor. Sherlock tried hard not to think about the lab or the medical quarters in the hospital facility.

_If you turn right, there's the lab_.

_Shut up._

_You sure you don't want to grab anything on the way? Methadone, perhaps? _

Lestrade pulled at Sherlock's coat. The tall man's train of thoughts disappeared.

"You're going the wrong way. The parking lot's this way." Lestrade said. His head tilted, his dark eyes peering into Sherlock's face. Sherlock laughed nervously.

"Um…" He started. "Would you excuse me for a second?" And he turned toward the direction of the men's restroom. John and Lestrade exchanged looks.

"Is Sherlock on a new case right now?" John shook his head.

"Not that I know of, no."

Lestrade rubbed his hand over his chin.

…

Sherlock didn't remember when he did it. His heart thumped and his eyes widened in disbelief. He slowly reached into his trouser pocket. There was an object in there. His quivering fingers touched the cool surface. His shoulders tensed as he weighed the object in his hand. He prayed that it was just an ink bottle. He pulled the object out and slowly dropped his gaze. The moment he saw it, Sherlock's face twisted into a look of pain and frustration. He couldn't believe it. John was there, Lestrade was there, Molly was there. How the hell did he do it? When did he do it? Why did he do it?

In his hand was a fresh bottle of morphine.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock opened the lid of the bottle and dumped the contents down the sink before any stupid thoughts came across him. The drugged half of him shouted and snarled at him for his stupid decision.

_You idiot, idiot! Get that back, get it back now! _

Sherlock just stared at the liquid swish around the drain hole once and then slide down the dark hole. He had seen something very similar to this before.

…

It was five years ago, in an old apartment where he lived before he met Mrs. Hudson and moved into Baker Street. He was in his bathroom, ready to finish himself off when the door flung open and a tightly clenched fist smashed into Sherlock's jaw…

Sherlock staggered back and almost tripped over the bath tub. Before he could recover, the newly promoted detective inspector tackled Sherlock. His broad shoulder smashed into Sherlock's torso and the two tumbled into the empty tub. Sherlock's back throbbed from the impact. Lestrade sent another blow into Sherlock's face. Then again and again and again…

"You rotten junkie!" he yelled and when Sherlock was sputtered blood from his mouth and nose, Lestrade pulled the bottle of morphine from Sherlock's pocket. The officer dashed to the sink and opened the lid.

"No!" Sherlock yelled and started for him but the officer dumped the contents down the drain. The drug addled man lunged forward as if he could scoop up the contents before it swirled down the hole. Lestrade restrained his flailing arm and held him back as Sherlock shouted,

"You idiot, idiot! Get that back, get it back now!" but the officer didn't listen. Lestrade's hair was a shade darker back then. He pinned Sherlock against the wall. Blood dripped down Sherlock's face and onto the front of his untidy shirt. His face had a ghastly demeanor. He was incredibly thin and bony, his cheek bones and collar bones jutted out sickly. His black curls were untamed.

"Look at you!" Lestrade exploded. He shook the dangerously skinny man twice. Lestrade was afraid that if he shook him anymore than this, Sherlock might break, but he had to make his point or this idiot was going to die. "You know better than this, you know better than _all_ of us! Of all people, why you, Sherlock? You don't have to do this. Stop it, stop it right now!" Sherlock smiled and shook his head.

"I can't" He wheezed. "I need this. It's… the only way I can be…ordinary." Lestrade eased his weight on Sherlock's arms. They were scarred with fresh needle marks.

"You don't need to Sherlock. You're extraordinary, now deal with it." Lestrade barely managed to say this before Sherlock's stomach decided to turn upside down.

…

Sherlock dry heaved at the hospital's sink. Remembering that day always makes him uncomfortable but the drug was trying to make him physically refresh his memory as well.

"Sherlock…?" John peeked into the restroom, "Oh darn." He ran up to Sherlock and rubbed his back like a professional doctor. Nothing came out of Sherlock's mouth except sour-tasting, liquidly bile. Sherlock spat and ran the water. He hastily pocketed the empty bottle before the doctor noticed. "Here, let me see." John turned Sherlock's face towards him gently and pulled down Sherlock's eyelids and looked under his eyes. They were unnaturally white.

"You need to eat." He said firmly. Sherlock groaned.

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care. You're eating." Sherlock wanted to protest but held back. He was lucky to have the doctor think that he was suffering mild malnutrition instead of the truth.

…

The slender fingers wrapped around the spoon gingerly. The tip of the spoon dipped into the surface of the soup, creating a small ripple. A simple vegetable soup; it was nothing too greasy or dry or hard for digestion. Mrs. Hudson made it for him in a bustle after hearing from John that Sherlock was sick. The spoon chased the carrots around and around. John realized Sherlock had no intention to eat it. Sherlock felt his flat mate's gaze burning into him. The pale man looked up hesitantly.

"Eat." The two men stared at each other glumly for a while. Sherlock squared his jaws and scooped up a carrot and nibbled on it. "I'm not going until you finish that."

"Stop treating me like I'm a five year old." Sherlock glowered but there was something in his eyes that made him look weak rather than threatening. John huffed.

"Then you bloody well should stop acting like one." Sherlock took a bite from his spoon to show that he wasn't sick at all, but in truth, his whole body was resisting. The moment he put that carrot in his mouth, his stomach started to wretch.

"When was the last time you ate anything?" The man asked as if interrogating a criminal. Sherlock rolled a slice of sausage in his mouth for a moment and answered reluctantly,

"Last Tuesday."

"That's four days ago!" John snapped and sighed like a disappointed mother. "Sherlock, why do you do this to yourself? Don't you know it's dangerous? I know you consider these things trivial but imagine how I would feel if something happened to you." Sherlock carried another spoonful slowly to his mouth.

"I have no idea. How would you feel?" he asked, genuinely curious. John blinked at Sherlock. His shoulders dropped and his expression shifted into something Sherlock didn't recognize very well. The detective's hands stopped as he stared back at John blankly. Was it anger? No, it was too subtle for that. Disappointment? Or maybe, just maybe…. It could be sadness. Sherlock couldn't tell for sure. John grimaced and leaned back on his chair.

"Just…just keep eating, Sherlock."

…

Despite John's effort, Sherlock was vomiting every last drop of Mrs. Hudson's soup into the bathroom toilet half a day later. Sherlock groaned as he flushed it down. Delirium was setting down upon him. Still in a kneeling position, he hung his long neck back and looked up at the ceiling. The lights shimmered above him. Everything was blurry. He couldn't move for a while so he just sat there like that, kneeling on the cool bathroom floor. Once he caught his breath, he leaned against the bath tub and limped toward the sink. He washed his face and rinsed his mouth. Then he washed his hands for no particular reason. He wasn't thinking straight. He didn't even bother wiping his face with a towel. He turned off the lights and carried himself heavily toward his bedroom. John was fast asleep. Sherlock was sure of that. The tall figure curled up into his bed and shivered. He drew up his sheets closed his eyes. It wasn't long before lightheadedness and drowsiness took over him.

…

_Worn out soles, clean laces…he obviously loves his shoes. No surprise since that model's a limited addition. Obviously he's some kind of a footwear mania. Ironic it doesn't match the rest of his attire. He is a stubborn man …an eldest child by the state of his bag. He probably has a younger sister and a brother with no more than 5 years age difference from each other…_

_Hold on._

_Newly wed, works at a public library, judging by the well-developed muscles on her right forearm, she's a frequent badminton player…_

_Wait._

_He's retired for 7 years, widowed 2 years ago. From the way he walks down the aisle of this vast store, he knows where everything belongs, meaning that he's been living here for a long time and has been shopping by himself for a long time too. Late marriage, no children… _

_No._

_Living together for 2 years, the girlfriend's considering ending the relationship. Victim of domestic violence. Pregnant. The man has no idea. She earns more salary than him. A typical example of an unhealthy, dependent relationship. _

_Please. _

_Occupation…truck driver_

_Stop._

_An American who lives in London since…_

_Stop._

_A college student, considering studying abroad to…_

_STOP! _

Sherlock pushed the heels of his palm into his eyes and crouched down.

_I said stop it, I'm sick of it. I need to rest._

He demanded weakly. A hand squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. At first it was a gentle, reassuring squeeze but it gradually turned into a painful, brutal grasp. The hand pulled Sherlock's shirt and he was pulled up to his feet.

_No _

The voice said firmly. It was his voice. The hand held Sherlock's arms. Sherlock saw his own face staring right back him. The lips were drawn tight, eyes determined and hard like steal. It was the logical Sherlock, the supreme controller of his mind palace.

_We have to keep doing this, you can't stop. _

_Please, just this once- _

Sherlock started to plead but the other Sherlock shushed him and opened another file. There was a picture of a man, dressed trimly with a pleasant smile and slick auburn hair.

_Mid forties, recently promoted, a chemical engineer…_

The internal Sherlock read the file mechanically. He busily flipped pages, assessed from photographs, and scribbled some notes in the margin. He made Sherlock watch and listen to all of this. Sherlock shook his head and tried to close the file but the other Sherlock didn't tolerate this. He waved Sherlock's hand away and opened a new file. Sherlock wanted to run away. He looked around for an exit but his mind palace was completely sealed. Suddenly it didn't feel like a palace to Sherlock. The other Sherlock grabbed his arm and tugged him back to his side.

_Four children, remarried, a patient man but tendency to show bursts of anger when…_

Just when the logical Sherlock was about to flip the page, something swooped behind the two and struck the logical Sherlock in the head. Sherlock staggered back as he saw the unknown assaulter tie the other Sherlock down with a rope.

_Hi again!_

It was Moriarty. There was a muffled grunt as the jolly consulting criminal strangled his mirror image. It was a strange sight to see. Sherlock cursed his twisted imagination once again. When the logical Sherlock was finally unconscious, Moriarty straightened himself up and straightened the creases on his beloved Westwood suit.

_Stay away. _

_Yeah, you're welcome. _

Moriarty stretched lazily and popped his shoulders. He rolled his neck and then looked back a Sherlock.

_You said you wanted it to stop so I just helped you, sheesh. _

_Yes but I didn't want your help. _

Sherlock protested.

_Honey, in here, I'm the only help you can get. _

Moriarty conjured a chair from behind him and he slid it over to Sherlock. He conjured another for his own and sat cross legged on it. When he noticed that Sherlock wasn't sitting, he gestured at the chair and stuck his chin out suggestively. Sherlock slowly lowered himself onto the chair. He eyed his unconscious self, lying at the foot of Moriarty's chair.

_Does that bother you?_

_Extremely. _

Moriarty shrugged and snapped his fingers. With a blink of an eye, the figure disappeared completely. It was as if he never existed. Suddenly, the bright lights in his mind palace dimmed. The while tiled floors became pitch black, followed by the wall.

_Comfortable? _

Strangely, it was. It felt soothing when he wasn't exposed to the bright white lights. It was as if he could finally relax his shoulders. It also felt very familiar.

_We used to talk like this all the time. It took me a while to arrange it back to how it used to be but I'm mostly in control of this place now. Just like before._

The man grinned back at him proudly. Moriarty was gaining control. This means that the drug was gaining control over him as well. Sherlock was utterly confused. He didn't know whether he ought to feel threatened or pleased by it.

_Moriarty…_

Sherlock started but the consulting criminal raised his hands to protest.

_Please, call me Jim. _

…_Alright, Jim, _

Sherlock began slowly, not sure how he should put this.

_But why are you doing this? _

Moriarty blinked.

_Why…because you wished for it. _

Sherlock bit his lips. Moriarty leaned forward in his chair.

_Tell me Sherlock, what makes you happy? _

_When I'm working. _

_No_

_What do you mean no? _

_No, that's what you __**do**__ to become happy. What makes you feel happy? _

…_When I've solved a case. _

Sherlock answered with a puzzled look on his face.

_Why?_

Now it was Sherlock's turn to blink.

_Why..? Because that's what I was born to do. _

_No you weren't. That's what you were __**cursed **__to do. _


	8. Chapter 8

_Your mind never lets you rest. It constantly assesses, analyzes, deduces, files, memorizes…it leaves you no time for sentiment or empathy or affection even if you wanted to. _

Sherlock scrunched up his face in denial.

_I never cared for feelings. Sentiment is only found on the-_

_The losing side, I know. You've been telling yourself that for years. But Sherlock, the truth is you've always craved to be ordinary and feel like others. _

_No I never-_

_Then how do you explain this, Sherlock?_

Moriarty interrupted with a firm look, and threw his arms wide to indicate what he was talking about.

_Because of your big brain, you never had anything called friends or lovers. You didn't understand them. So what did you have to do? You had to shut this whole place down. You let yourself drown in drugs._

Moriarty gestured at his surroundings. Sherlock squirmed in his seat.

_No, all it matters to me is the Work. _

Sherlock insisted, but his voice sounded slightly weaker.

_Because all you have IS the Work. _

Moriarty's raised his brow quizzically. Sherlock bit his lower lip. Moriarty sighed and stood up from his seat. Sherlock followed the expensively dressed man with his eyes as the figure reached for one of the drawers and pulled out a file randomly. He thrust the file toward Sherlock so he could read the title. It simply said, _**Ballistics A-17**__. _

_You have a drawer full of these. And these._

He showed him a different file. This time the title was _**East London**__._ Moriarty flipped through the file and showed him a page with a map. It was a map of a park.

_See here? You used to go there when you were a kid. You liked that spot. You read here when the weather was clear. You used to walk around this place, and what do you file? _

Moriarty flipped to the next page where there were snapshots of the park and a typed report.

_Hmm, it says nothing about your childhood memories. Just some observation on its landscape, statistics on people who visited it, and notes on any crime that took place near it. _

_I must have deleted it. _

Sherlock answered with a shrug. Moriarty tossed the files back inside the drawer without even caring to place it back in its proper order. Sherlock itched to reorganize it.

_That's the problem, Sherlock. You delete too much. All you have is the Work. _

The consulting detective muttered in a low growl,

_It's all I need._

Moriarty sighed and sat down in his chair again. There was a look of sadness in the criminal's eyes. The expression was so gentle that it didn't fit his character at all. It sent an uncomfortable shiver up Sherlock's back and something panged in his chest.

_You don't need to do this, Sherlock. _

_I do. _

It could have just been Sherlock's imagination but Moriarty seemed to be sitting closer to Sherlock.

_Look at you. You starve yourself, you don't sleep…_

_It helps me think. _

_What's all the running for? _

The two men's seats were no more than a meter apart now. Sherlock's light blue eyes wavered for a second. Moriarty gently placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

…_They need me. _

Sherlock said in a weak hush of a whisper. The only time when he felt like he was worth something was when he was solving a crime, a puzzle …a mystery. He had to keep on going. He had to keep challenging himself to prove everyone his intellect. It was the only time when he felt like he belonged somewhere…but he was tired. Sherlock was oh so tired of all of it. Moriarty leaned toward Sherlock.

_Take my hand, Sherlock. I can help you. I can help you rest. _

The man insisted in a soft murmur but Sherlock lowered his head and shook it. Moriarty gently wrapped his hands around Sherlock's head.

_Close your eyes Sherlock. Relax, let it all go. Let me help you, please. _

He always thought solving crime was fun. It was pure joy…or was it? Had it always been like that? Is it just that he enjoys it because it justifies his existence? What did he truly want then? Lost in confusion, Sherlock leaned his head against Moriarty's shoulder. His eyelids slowly shut.

_Take a deep breath. You don't have to push yourself anymore. You can rest, stop thinking, and just…_

Moriarty's voice echoed in Sherlock's head. He can feel the vibration of Moriarty's voice through his shoulders. There was something very soothing about it. He had never felt so relaxed in such a long time. Sherlock found himself slightly shudder as he exhaled slowly.

_You don't have to delete anything anymore. You don't need to file anything anymore. Just let it all go. _

Moriarty's voice and warmth melted into Sherlock. For a long time, Moriarty gently embraced Sherlock like that for what seemed like hours. He had never felt so calm before. The confusion inside him was all gone by now. It felt so perfect. Nothing felt flawed. It was complete. No mysteries, no missing link, and no need of struggle. He wished to stay like this forever…

Sherlock opened his eyes. He found himself gazing up at the ceiling. His heart was beating slightly faster than usual. He placed the back of his hand on his forehead and sighed. His body temperature was higher than usual. It was already morning. He can hear John walking around the kitchen. The shivers and nausea from last night was gone, but when Sherlock sat up, it felt as if his body was half floating. He looked at his watch. It was exactly 24 hours since his last injection. Sherlock sniffed. His nose was slightly runny. It was a typical sign of one of the withdrawal symptoms. He wished his brain to stop craving for the drug, but that dream he saw last night…The detective shivered. He tried to shake the thought away. _Delete it, delete it_. He told himself but he couldn't. His mind palace refused.

Sherlock went downstairs to greet John. He tried to preoccupy his head with anything other than morphine. He grabbed a testing tube and a beaker and tried to start a new experiment but he couldn't concentrate for more than 5 minutes. John offered him a breakfast but he waved it away. The doctor frowned back at him.

"Sherlock, you have to eat." He asserted but the taller man shook his head as he randomly rummaged around scraps of paper.

"I'll eat it later; I'm not hungry right now."

"You promise?" Without looking at John, Sherlock nodded and he grabbed for his violin but tossed it back onto the sofa before he could play even a single note. He scratched his head. _Find something to do, Sherlock. Stop thinking about it…_ Sherlock checked his phone and his website. No one had contacted him for a new case. The back of his eyes started to pound dully. John was seated at his chair, reading a newspaper. Sherlock placed the tip of his fingers together and breathed slowly. He paced up and down the room. He shot a nervous look out the window. It was bright… perhaps too bright. The pounding sensation in his head grew. A bead of sweat rolled down along his left cheekbone. It wasn't even hot, why was he sweating? He hurried toward the bookshelf to find something to read for pleasure. Every step he took toward the books caused his body to tremble. John was still engaged in his reading. Sherlock clung to the bookshelf and stared at the encyclopedia lined up in front of him. The letters blurred and doubled. Suddenly, his fingertips felt as if it was touching ice, the tip of his feet started to feel numb. The warmth he had felt in his dream the other day, started to seep away. Sherlock was paralyzed. He needed the drug to get his warmth back. Sherlock inhaled deeply but oxygen didn't help at all. The tall man lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He was losing control over his brain. It was screaming for the drug, the warmth, the calmness. It had taken his body as hostage and now it was demanding for what it craved.

...

John peered down at Sherlock with a mixture of rage, confusion, and genuine shock.

"You WHAT?" He exclaimed again as he pocketed his phone, but an immense jolt of pain that ran inside Sherlock's head before he could answer. The thin, long finger clutched his head. His body squirmed and he kicked the floor. John held him down and tried to keep Sherlock from hurting himself. After a few seconds, Sherlock stopped and his hands went limp.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked urgently. Sherlock had blacked out. John took a deep breath and rolled up his sleeves. He turned his head toward the door and called for Mrs. Hudson. Sensing that something had gone wrong from John's stressed shout, the landlady came to their door in hurry.

"Anything wrong, Jo- oh dear." She let out a nervous squeak and placed her hand over her mouth when she saw Sherlock pale, sweaty and unconscious on the floor. "What happened?" John didn't answer immediately. He beckoned her over and said in an urgent tone,

"I don't know," he lied "but you need to help me carry him to his bed."

John hooked his arm under Sherlock's armpit and lifted him up as Mrs. Hudson grabbed Sherlock's long limp legs. John was surprised to find Sherlock lighter than he had expected. Mrs. Hudson seemed to notice too and looked up with a worried look.

"He hasn't been eating properly has he?" She squeaked and the two carefully carried him toward his bedroom. Sherlock groaned when John carefully laid him down on the bed. Mrs. Hudson arranged his legs so she could pull the sheets up to his waist and keep him warm. Then she rubbed her hip and winced. John pulled up a chair beside Sherlock and turned on the bedside lamp. The curtain was closed and the room was dark. Mrs. Hudson peered over John shoulder with a worried look. John swiftly unbuttoned Sherlock's dark velvet shirt.

"I'll go get a hot towel." Mrs. Hudson murmured and rushed out the door. The front of the shirt was already wet with sweat. Sherlock's chest rose and sank heavily. John held a gasp when he opened the shirt completely. Sherlock's body was skinnier than he had expected. It had clearly lost a frightening amount of weight over the past few days. The rib cages were visible, his stomach was sunken and flat, and his collar bone was dangerously visible. Mrs. Hudson came back into the room and she gently wiped the sweat away from Sherlock's forehead.

"Oh dear, he's burning hot." John nodded and ran out the room and grabbed a bag from his own bedroom. It was the bag he carried to work. He dashed back into Sherlock's room, opened his bag and pulled out a stethoscope. He placed the instrument against Sherlock's chest and strained his ears. His heartbeat was quick and short, his breathing was raspy and thin. John scratched the back of his neck and bit his lower lip. He wished he could do something to ease Sherlock's pain but there was nothing he could give him. In fact, he had to _keep_ Sherlock away from any narcotics.

"Should I get an ambulance?" Mrs. Hudson asked uneasily once she finished wiping sweat away from Sherlock's face. John shook his head.

"No, I can manage, thank you Mrs. Hudson." He smiled weakly. Mrs. Hudson eyed Sherlock and then back to John uncertainly.

"Okay…well, if you need me, I'll always be downstairs." She gently patted John's hand as she exited the room. Once the door closed, John hurried toward Sherlock's dressings and pulled out a cotton room shirt. The doctor carefully lifted Sherlock's unconscious body and slipped his arms away from the damp shirt. The task was harder than John expected since he had to hold Sherlock up with one arm and yank the fabric away from Sherlock's long limbs with the other. A few more minutes of wrestling with the fabric, John managed to slip Sherlock on a fresh pair of shirt. He slowly laid Sherlock down on his back and pulled the bed sheet over to his chest. Sherlock murmured something but John couldn't catch what he was saying.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked quietly but the detective didn't answer. John sighed. He was probably talking in his sleep. John looked around the room. What did he mean by withdrawal symptoms? From the looks of it, it seemed like Sherlock was suffering from an opiate withdrawal. The doctor looked around the room. Could it be that he still has some stash in this room? He scanned the area and looked under the bed with a pen light in one hand. He felt guilty for snooping around his flat mate's room but he had to. He opened some drawers and checked the bookshelf. He checked some of Sherlock's spare trouser pockets. There was nothing. John sighed. Maybe it was somewhere else in the house. As he turned his attention to the door, he saw Sherlock's coat hanging from it. He paced toward the coat and randomly stuck his hand in its pocket. He froze. He pulled out the object that was in Sherlock's pocket and looked at the label.

"Oh god…" He muttered and looked at Sherlock, then back at the label. The vial had an emblem very familiar to John. The emblem was from St. Bart's.

…

Sherlock ran down the aisle and looked everywhere. He couldn't find it. He couldn't find the exit. His mind palace was in a devastating state. The lights above flickered like a half failing light bulb. It was freezing cold and the floor was wet. Water was leaking in from somewhere. The drawers were opened and files and papers were scattered everywhere. Some were floating on the ankle high water surface. Sherlock winced. The water was ice cold and his legs were turning numb. He slammed a fist against the grey wall. The pounding noise echoed around the area and hurt his ears. He gritted his teeth and continued to punch the wall in hopes that someone would notice. He was trapped. The air was getting colder and colder. His breath was white. He slammed his shoulder against the wall. Pain jolted down his right arm but he didn't care. He had to get out of here before it came. Before he knew it, Sherlock was yelling for help.

_Jim!_

He yelled. It was the last name he thought he would ever call for help but a voice familiar rang in his head.

_Honey, in here, I'm the only help you can get._

_Jim, get me out of here! It's coming, please, before I-_

…Too late. Something grabbed his arms and legs and pulled him down. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly. His body was completely paralyzed as the floor became soft and started to swallow his legs. Sherlock was sinking into the water soaked floor. He sank to his knees, waist, and then to his chest. Sherlock opened his eyes and tried to climb out of the cold goo but it wouldn't budge. Instead, the more he moved, the more quickly he sank.

_Jim, help me!_

He barely managed to yell before he was completely swallowed by the dark, cold nightmare.

…

Sherlock gasped for air. A hand grasped the hair on the back of Sherlock's head. A rough voice yelled,

"Stay down!" and the hand pushed Sherlock's face back into the cold water. The sensation was all too familiar. He was back again, back in those days before he became a consulting detective. Sherlock fought to free himself from the painful grip but an addition pair of hands grabbed Sherlock's arms and held it behind his back. Sherlock screamed in the water. His lungs were clawing inside him for air. Just when he thought he was going to black out, the hand yanked Sherlock's face up. Before the slender man could open his eyes, he was ducked into the water again. Sherlock was kneeling in front of a gritty water tank at a cold, damp basement. The air stank of rust and sweat. Sherlock tried to kick the attacker away but the hands twisted Sherlock's arms so that pain ran down his shoulder blades. The hand pulled Sherlock away from the water. The young man gasped for air and embraced himself for another dunk, but the hand didn't move. Instead, it pulled his head up so that he had to gaze up at the ceiling and the bare water pipes. Sherlock was shaking and light headed from the lack of oxygen. He gulped for air and spat water out from his mouth. The hands let go of Sherlock. Sherlock collapsed on the cold hard floor. He coughed.

"You don't talk about this to anyone, you understand?" The voice barked at him. Sherlock rolled on his back and looked up at the men gazing down at him. There were four of them. Sherlock had accidentally run into a group of men cornering a woman. Coincidentally, they were the gang responsible for multiple assaults on women that took place for the past few months. Because of them, a curfew had been set out. Night time walks for women were dangerous around this part of London. And so was it for a young man foolish enough to interrupt their night time recreation. Sherlock shook his head. A boot rammed into Sherlock's ribs. Sherlock just grunted and rolled on to his side. How can he not notice this to the police? It was completely illogical.

"I said do you understand?" The voice demanded. Another kick landed into Sherlock's abdomen. This made Sherlock wretch. He gasped for breath and clutched his hands over his stomach. _Why didn't he just back away when they told you to shut your mouth? Why did you shake your head?_ He questioned himself angrily. If it weren't for his big brained ego, he would have been at home by now. _Because it wasn't logical. _Another kick landed in Sherlock's jaw.

…

John strained his ears when he first heard it. He thought it was a mistake, but then Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and the delirious man murmured weakly,

"_Jim_."

John blinked and wondered how many Jims Sherlock knew. John took Sherlock's arm and took his pulse. It was beating fast. He had been sitting beside Sherlock for fifteen minutes. The detective's pulse was so far beating as a fast as a man would during a marathon.

"…_Jim, help me."_ John held Sherlock's hand tightly without noticing. Who was Jim? Surely it couldn't be Jim Moriarty…or could it?


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock woke up with a start. His hands flew to his face. He expected his lips to be swollen and bloody but they were just fine. A hand gripped Sherlock's wrist firmly. Sherlock flinched and tried to pry it away.

"Easy, easy." A voice said gently. Sherlock turned his head to his right. John's face stared right back at him. The soldier's dark eyes twinkled with a worrisome look. Sherlock breathed heavily and sat up. John gently placed a hand on Sherlock's back. Sherlock hastily checked his ribs. They weren't broken or bruised. They felt just fine.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock gaped back at his flat mate for a moment, blinked several times and looked down at his trembling hands.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine…fine…" but John knew that asking the question in the first place was a silly thing. Sherlock's voice was hollow and he was obviously far from okay. John took Sherlock's pulse again. Sherlock stared down at John's firm hands with sunken eyes. He still felt like he was in that basement from eight years ago. He looked around his room. The curtains were drawn and on the bed side table was an empty vial of morphine that he had emptied the other day. Sherlock pursed his lips.

"You're pulse's still a bit high." John's hands swept away the matted hair from Sherlock's forehead and placed a hand on it. The doctor held it there for a few seconds and nodded. "Let me see your face." He gently turned Sherlock's face toward him and checked his eye lids and throat. Sherlock didn't utter a single word as the inspection was executed. Sherlock knew that John had already realized the situation and he probably thinks that Sherlock had taken the drug voluntarily. Technically he had for his second dosage but none of this would have happened if it weren't for Jim Moriarty. A strange feeling bloomed inside him as Jim's face emerged in his head. Oh hell, he was even calling him _Jim._

"So, who's Jim?" John suddenly asked. Sherlock jumped. It was as if John had read his mind.

"Who?" Sherlock asked with a half dazed look. John avoided Sherlock's eye contact as he pulled his hand away.

"You were talking in your sleep. It seemed like you were having a nightmare." John looked up at Sherlock hesitantly. Sherlock cleared his throat. He shifted in his seat. His legs ached. He tried to slide out of bed but John held him back.

"No, you need to stay here. I'll go get some water for you. You're dehydrated." Sherlock didn't nod or shake his head. He just stared back at John with a blank look. As soon as John disappeared through the door, Sherlock ran a hand down his hair. It was soaking wet. He recalled the dream he had. The sinking sensation he experienced at his mind palace made him shiver. Suddenly he felt so cold. He drew the bed sheet up to his chin and dug himself deeper into the bed. He felt like he was sleeping on a pile of coal. His back ached. Sherlock tried to find a comfortable position but his body ached all over the place. He lied stomach down and hugged the pillow. He knew that all the kicking and punching was just from a bad dream but the body aches were so tremendous that he started to wonder if it was just a dream after all. He kneaded his forehead and groaned. How was he supposed to explain all of this to John?

Just then, the door creaked open and the doctor came with a jar of water and a glass. He poured some for Sherlock as the sick man slowly raised himself up again. He weakly thanked his roommate as he received the glass and gulped the water down. Every time he swallowed, a nauseating feeling grew inside his abdomen but he ignored it. John took the empty glass away from Sherlock without saying a word. Sherlock cursed John's grand gift of silence. He knew that John was bursting with questions and was itching to shake Sherlock and demand for a proper explanation for all this mess. Sherlock wished the doctor would simply just ask because he had no idea where to start.

Sherlock got back onto his stomach and breathed heavily. He buried his face into the pillow and tried to gather his strength to speak. He tried to organize his story in his head as quickly as his half deranged mind could possibly manage. John mistook Sherlock's body language as a clear "go away" message. He sighed and raised himself from the chair and reached for the door.

"John," Sherlock managed to call out in a cracked voice.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry." John blinked. Then he slowly slid down back to his seat with a half opened mouth. Sherlock had never apologized to him in such a straight forward manner. Usually, when Sherlock made an apology, he made sure to deliver a cynical remark along with it. He never just _apologized. _

"I'm sorry." Sherlock grumbled again. His face was pushed against the pillow. His head was turned only slightly so that his left eye was peaking over shyly at John. "I never meant to-"

"I know, I know." John said reassuringly. A smile of relief spread across his face. The awkward tension between Sherlock and John melted immediately. Sherlock exhaled in his pillow and turned his head so his full face was faced toward John. His right cheek was pushed against the pillow.

"It's been 24 hours since my last dose…you should leave before it gets any nastier. I can manage on my own." John slowly shook his head and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock. There's no need to warn me." Sherlock nodded. Yes, of course. John was used to seizures, vomits, and high fever. He's a doctor for heaven's sake. Half of Sherlock scolded himself for the silly remark. The other half of him felt dread. He was half hoping John would nod in agreement and leave the room. Sherlock felt ashamed to show John such vulnerability. It just wasn't himself. It wasn't the Sherlock John knew. It was the Sherlock that he abandoned years ago. It was the Sherlock Detective Inspector Lestrade had helped to kill off. Sherlock's eyes shifted to the empty vial on the bed side table. He glanced at it for a while. John watched Sherlock and wondered what was going on in his head.

"So, you got this from Bart's?" John asked slowly.

"Mhhmmm." Sherlock replied, still gazing at the vial.

"Yesterday?"

"Yes."

"And how much-"

"I didn't." Sherlock replied sharply. His eyes peeled away from the vial and flashed towards John. Then, the lights in his eyes dimmed again. He dropped his gaze down to his pillow. "I emptied it before I could. And I disposed any other remaining stock as well." Sherlock's voice trailed away. He shifted uncomfortably in his bed. His eye twitched. He let out a sigh and a weak laugh.

"Look at me, John. Just look at me. The great Sherlock Holmes, bed ridden…all thanks to a small dosage of a single nasty shot." John didn't say anything. He just gazed down at Sherlock with a sad expression. "I didn't want to show you this. I really didn't." He muttered more to himself rather than to John.

"You should have told me immediately, you idiot." John opposed. Sherlock smiled.

"This isn't my first time."

"I know that." John replied bluntly. The two gazed at each other for a while. The silence was finally broken when John sighed and relaxed his shoulders.

"Why did you fall back, Sherlock? Why? Since when?" He asked pleadingly. Sherlock closed his eyes and shifted his weight slightly to the right.

"I didn't fall back. Someone pushed me." John squared his jaw as he heard this. "It was Jim…" Sherlock grimaced. "Jim…Moriarty" he added hesitantly. John's eyes widened. Surprise and anger swirled inside it. Sherlock's legs started to ache. It was a typical withdrawal symptom. He knew the pain will increase by the coming hours.

"The warehouse…?" John asked in a whisper. Sherlock smiled.

"Sharp." John's mouth twitched at the unexpected compliment.

"…Thanks" he croaked and returned a crooked smile at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled himself back onto his back and gazed at the ceiling. His head was strangely blank. If he was in his usual state his brain would be swirling with dozens of thoughts and he had to juggle them nonstop but right now, his mind was calm. It was so calm and peaceful, that it half scared Sherlock.

"48 more hours…" Sherlock muttered. "48 more hours to go." John nodded in agreement. The peak of withdrawals disappears 72 hours after the last dosage. Then, Sherlock would be free from his crave for drugs. He was only one third through the trip. The worst was yet to come. Sherlock turned sharply at John. They were set firmly at John's. The doctor stared back uncertainly. "John," he started in a low firm voice. "For the next couple of days I will probably fall into a delirious state in times. I may even try to escape this flat or hurt myself. No matter what I do, no matter what I say, don't ever, _ever _let me take another dose." John nodded firmly.

"Of course. I'll keep you clean no matter what it takes." Sherlock gazed back at the ceiling with a faraway look.

"No matter what it takes…" He echoed blankly. "Just don't hurt yourself, John…or if it's possible, don't let me hurt you." As he said this, a dark shadow fell upon Sherlock's face.

…

After their conversation, Sherlock just lied still in his bed. John was sitting beside him, reading a book by the lamp light. It was still midday. Sherlock's back was faced against the doctor. He was exhausted but his eyes were wide open. Sherlock couldn't admit this to John but the truth was that he was too frightened to go to sleep. He couldn't let himself slip into his mind palace again. He learned from his last experience that _Jim _had faded away and was not able to help Sherlock. _Jim_. He mouthed the words silently. _Jim_. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. His hands twitched. He wanted to jump out of the bed. _Jim_…Sherlock furrowed his brow. _Stop calling his name in your head. _He told himself firmly. Goosebumps ran down his arm. He rubbed his shoulders to get rid of it. He shivered. _Jim…Stop it!_ Sherlock shook his head. He flopped on his back and gritted his teeth. _Jim_. He remembered the warmth. _Jim_. The gentle auburn eyes that stared back at him. _JIM…_ Sherlock bolted upright. John jumped in surprise. Sherlock restlessly climbed out of the bed.

"I need to shower." Sherlock growled and burst out of the room.

"Okay." John murmured and grabbed a new pair of clothing for Sherlock and handed it to him before he disappeared into the shower room. John hovered over the closed door to check the noise of running water before he went downstairs to prepare for a quick lunch.

Sherlock was shivering violently as he stepped into the shower. The hot water pounded on Sherlock's temple and ran down his shoulders and back. He expected his body to be enveloped by steamy warmth but he still felt cold. He pressed his hands against the wall and leaned forward. He bowed his head so that the water would directly hit the back of Sherlock's long neck. He was cold…freezing cold.

John almost dropped his kitchen knife when he heard a large thud from upstairs. Before he knew it, he hastily placed the knife down and dashed toward the shower room.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" He called out over the door. The shower was still running.

"…Fine, I'm fine." Sherlock growled back. John let out a sigh of relief. He feared the Sherlock had collapsed in the shower.

"Do you need any help?"

"No." The voice replied bluntly.

"Okay." John nodded and went back to the kitchen. Sherlock stared down at his right hand. He furrowed his brow. He opened and closed his hand. The knuckle was deeply cut and blood ran freely down into the drain along with hot water. He had just punched the wall in undefinable agitation. His brain was screaming for the drug. And if he didn't obey soon, Sherlock's brain was going to tear his own body apart. _Jim_…

* * *

><p>*<em>Thanks for reading so far ;) <em>

_and a thousand thanks for the wonderful reviews! _

_The worst is yet to come for Sherlock and John, and hope I'll be able to write some things about Sherlock's childhood memories as well._

_48 more hours to go! _


	10. Chapter 10

_*I was literally gaping at my e-mail inbox the other day because there were so many notices of reviews and favs...thank you very much!_

_I'd like to just use this place to quickly reply to some of the wonderful comments and questions froI've recieved from the previous chapter, that prompted me to think about some things in the story I haven't noticed myself. _

**DreamBr_other _**_& **eohippus - **Thank you for such a generous and thorough review! I'm really, **really** flattered! _

_**Mitaya **- Oh no, plot hole! Thank you for pointing that out :0 To be honest I have no idea how to play it out. It might make some sense to say that John and Sherlock reached a mutual agreement to avoid any kind of drug whatsoever. I'm really sorry, I'm pretty sure it's not medically accurate but I hope it works in the story for you X( _

_**gaap237**- My original plan was to keep Lestrade only in Sherlock's flashback sequence but now that you mentioned it, I might try to work him into the story as well :)_

_A couple more chapters to go! Hope you enjoy this one as much as the others, and thanks again for all the wonderful reviews. _

* * *

><p>After Sherlock took the shower and dried himself, John tried to make Sherlock eat something but the detective just shook his head. He insisted that he wasn't hungry but John knew that Sherlock's brain was playing a trick on him. Sherlock's body was screaming for nutrition. Lack of appetite was one of the major symptoms. Things were going to get worse from here so this was the only chance John had to make Sherlock get some food. After a few minutes of reasoning, Sherlock grew tired of arguing and gave in. He reluctantly sipped the chicken soup John had prepared for him.<p>

"It's not as good as Mrs. Hudson's but this would do." John shrugged. Sherlock didn't utter a single word as he ate. Beads of sweat formed around his neck and forehead. Halfway through the plate, Sherlock suddenly shoved the soup bowl at John and flew out of the room. John hurried after him and found the poor man kneeling in front of the toilet dry heaving violently. John kneeled beside him and rubbed his back but Sherlock pushed him away. John didn't protest and just took a step back and supervised the reversing process. After a few moments, Sherlock slumped against the bath tub and placed his hand over his face and covered his eyes. His hands were shaking violently and sweat ran down along Sherlock's neck. He was so pale, that John could clearly see the blue veins on his hands and neck. John also spotted a fresh gash on Sherlock's knuckle. He knelt in front of Sherlock and waited for him to catch his breath.

"I guess we'll have to go with intravenous feeding then." John murmured. Sherlock nodded in agreement. It's been five days since Sherlock kept anything down in his stomach for proper digestion. John gently reached for Sherlock's head and pressed lightly against his neck. He had an enlarged thyroid gland. It was a clear sign of malnutrition. John massaged Sherlock's trembling, clammy, long fingers and asked gently,

"Any numbness?"

"Yes." Sherlock murmured with his eyes unfocused and pupils dilated. The light blue eyes were dimmed and looked almost grey to John. Sherlock wretched again but he managed to keep his digestives down.

"Are there any chest pains?" Sherlock nodded.

"Cold?"

"Very."

"What happened to this?" John indicated the gash. The cut was deeper than he thought when he saw it up close. He turned to the cabinet to get a band aid. Sherlock pressed against the rim of the bathtub and lifted himself up. John turned back to Sherlock and asked for his hand but Sherlock shook his head and swayed toward his bedroom.

"But-"

"It's just a cut." Sherlock grumbled. There was slight tone of shame in Sherlock's voice. Letting John massage his hands must have made Sherlock feel even weaker and vulnerable. The more John helped Sherlock, the more he hurt his dignity and pride. Receiving a band aid for a cut was out of the question. John pursed his lips and pocketed the band aid and followed the taller man silently. As soon as Sherlock was back in soundly in his bed, John checked his blood pressure. It was too high. John hurried to his room and got several stocks of intravenous infusions. He hurried beside Sherlock and asked for his arm. Sherlock obeyed silently and presented his dangerously thin, pale arm. John tried to keep a straight face as he cradled the fragile limb and inserted the needle.

Sherlock's heart pounded so hard that his chest ached. He can still taste the sourness in his mouth. It's been 36 hours. Halfway through and he knew the last half was going to be a bumpier ride. He closed his eyes. White sparks erupted behind his eye lids and it stung. He opened his eyes with a start but the pain didn't go away. Instead, it started to grow inside him and pound against his eyes violently. Sherlock breathed through his nose heavily and pressed the heel of his hand into his eyes.

"You okay?"

"Migraines." Sherlock muttered. John turned off the lamp light. "Thanks." He said but Sherlock couldn't hide the irritation in his voice. The pain was becoming unbearable. If it continued any longer, Sherlock could swear that his eyes were going to pop. He suppressed a moan through his gritted teeth. John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder worryingly but it didn't help at all. _Jim…Jim…Jim…_

"…Jim" Sherlock muttered out loud without noticing. The hand on Sherlock's shoulder tensed for a fraction of a second and then it slid away. Sherlock's left hand twitched and grasped at John's wrist. The grip was so tight and Sherlock's nails dug sharply into John's skin. John froze.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock realized what he was doing and let go with a start. He stared up a John with slightly widened eyes. His brows were furrowed in pain, but other facial expression showed a sign of surprise. He blinked and turned away.

"…You don't need to stay beside me all the time John. I know you want to rest." He murmured through his gritted teeth and massaged his eye lids.

"It's okay." John started to say but he realized that this was Sherlock's way of saying "Thank you for your help but please leave me alone for the moment." John closed his mouth and nodded. He slipped out of the room and closed the door silently behind him.

Sherlock tried to open his eyes but his eyelids didn't budge. He was biting on his lips so hard that it was starting to bleed. He groaned to himself. He wanted to ram his head against the wall but he didn't have the strength to lift himself up. Sherlock was exhausted but he didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to go back there again, but the pain was so immense that he had no choice but to slip into unconsciousness. That was the only way he could cope with the pain.

…

The water was already waist high. The majority of the facility was enveloped in darkness and only a few lights were functioning properly. Sherlock climbed on top of one of the aligned drawers and looked down into the water. He could faintly see his own reflection floating among the darkness. It was pale, ghastly and above all young. In fact, he was too young. Sherlock Holmes was looking at the reflection of his child self. Sherlock took a step back in surprise. The reflection in the water did the same. He looked down at his hands. They were the size of an adult's. He looked at his feet. He was wearing his usual trousers and leather shoes. He looked back at the water. Little Sherlock was staring right back at him. Sherlock shook his head and took another step back. Before he knew it, his foot slipped off the edge of the drawer and he plunged back first into the ice cold, pitch black water.

Everyone loved him. He was one of the most popular teachers in school. Being in Mr. Dalton's class was the best thing that could happen to a kid in this school, yet there was one child who feared him; Sherlock Holmes. By the age of ten, Sherlock had learned that things are not always how they seemed to be. It was a lesson anyone would learn as they came of age, but Sherlock learned it too quickly. The Holmes brothers saw everything. Their sharp eyes spotted even the most well hidden ugly truth of real life with one glance of their surroundings. Mycroft knew how to hide his knowledge. Sherlock was a bit clumsier than his older brother and he often slipped up. His attitude toward Mr. Dalton was a good example.

Everyone tugged at the jolly teacher's sleeves during recess. Mr. Dalton's wide grin, booming laughter and the warm enveloping arms attracted all the kids. Sherlock however, refused to go near the man and lurked in the corner of the playground. Sherlock wasn't a shy boy. If you interviewed the other teachers in his primary school, they would all remark that Mycroft was the rather shy content one and Sherlock was the out spoken energetic one, but Sherlock was alarmingly quiet and withdrawn during his year in Mr. Dalton's class.

What they all failed to see was that behind Mr. Dalton's bright smiles was another truth. Sometimes Sherlock even wondered how people failed to notice this crucial fact. Perhaps they saw it too, but they refused to believe it. Or perhaps they saw it too but they just don't _observe_ it. The moment he and Mycroft laid eyes on that man, they knew that he was an incredibly heavy drinker and had a rather long history of inflicting domestic abuse to both his wife and son. It was the first true sadist that Sherlock had ever met. He could imagine Mr. Dalton shoving his wife violently against the wall, the numerous bruises and burns he had inflicted with those hands… and that same hand was holding the hands of his classmate. Mycroft simply pressed his index fingers to his lips and nodded at Sherlock. Then he ran off to his own class. Sherlock stood rooted to the spot, as he wondered how he was going to cope with this dangerous teacher for a whole year.

"Sherlock, you alright there?" It was the first week in his class when Sherlock found Mr. Dalton crouching in front of him after school. He was waiting for his brother at the school entrance. Sherlock looked up with a look of surprise. The moment he saw the teacher's face staring right back at him, Sherlock gripped his bag tightly and drew his lips into a straight line. Mr. Dalton reached forward to hold Sherlock's shoulder but the boy cowered away. _Stupid_. He told himself but it was too late. An alarmed look flashed in Mr. Dalton's dark green eyes. _Now he knows that I know. _Sherlock looked down at his foot. Mr. Dalton straightened up and opened his mouth to say something but before he could utter a single word, his brother called out from behind them,

"Sherlock." They both looked up to find Mycroft smiling back. If Sherlock didn't know Mycroft better, he would have thought that his brother knew nothing, but there was a certain twinkle in his eyes that only Sherlock knew. His brother had just saved his neck.

After that incident, Mr. Dalton never approached Sherlock when he was alone. Half of him probably feared Sherlock, and another half probably hated the sharp kid. He occasionally called on Sherlock during class and Sherlock would answer any question betraying as little emotion as possible. No one other than his teacher knew the reason to why Sherlock was being so quiet. Soon, people started calling him "freak". The more Sherlock kept his emotions to himself, the more people drew away from him. Mr. Dalton, of course, offered no help to Sherlock concerning this problem. The more Sherlock saw, the more he feared. He saw everything. Nothing was innocent in Sherlock's eyes anymore. He was still eight when this happened. Sherlock despised his curse.

John visited Sherlock's room after leaving him for thirty minutes. The detective was sound asleep. He was sweating heavily and he flinched in his sleep once a while but it was good that Sherlock at least had no signs of insomnia so far. John laid his eyes on the gash on Sherlock's hand. He stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out the bandage. He gently cradled the hand and applied it to the cut. Then, he carefully tucked the hand back under the sheets.

Sherlock felt a hand hold him as he walked out of school. He thought it was Mycroft at first but it was too big. He looked up to see Jim smiling back down at him. Sherlock's mouth hung open for a second. His head was bursting with questions, but before he could ask anything, Jim tugged gently at Sherlock and the two treaded away from the school. The two walked in silence. Sherlock felt unnaturally calm, sound, and above all safe. A smile broke onto his face. Suddenly, he didn't see anything anymore. He couldn't make out any deductions from the people passing by him. He didn't have to think. He was safe from all the truth. However, this moment of bliss lasted only for a few minutes. A jolt ran down Sherlock's spine and everything became dark. The sun was gone, the familiar smell of the playground was gone, and Jim was gone. Sherlock looked around. He was his adult self again and he was gasping for air. He was back in his flooding mind palace. The water was shoulder high and papers were floating everywhere around him. He grabbed one of the soaking file that was floating lazily past him. He looked at the title. _**Timothy Dalton**_**. **He rolled the half soaked file in his hands and threw it as far away as possible and he screamed.

…

Sherlock bolted upright and yanked the IV from his arm. He stumbled out of his bedroom and went to the shower room. He slapped steaming hot water on his face frantically. Why did he have to see that dream? Why did he still remember him in the first place? He cursed his brain for letting him see all that. Then, he remembered the reassuring grip in his hand. _Jim_. He looked up at the mirror and froze. He gawked at his horrid demeanor. His face was so sunken and aged that Sherlock was surprised that he was still alive. He felt miserable, lost and useless. The consulting detective hung his head over the sink and tried to clear his head but a strange buzzing noise erupted in his ear every time he tried to concentrate. Sherlock huffed irritably and paced around the shower room. His knees ached every time he took a step but anything was better than just lying still on the bed. He looked down at the tiled floor. The lines and the squares floated up toward him and swirled around. Suddenly, Sherlock choked. He felt like he's been on a rough boat ride. He stumbled toward the toilet and heaved. Nothing came out. He slid back and collapsed on the floor. His cheeks touched the cool smooth surface. He stared blankly toward the door and stayed there for a few seconds. He could have been like that for hours if it weren't for a pair of very familiar leather shoes stepping into the shower room. Sherlock shifted his gaze upward and froze at the spot. He saw himself gazing down at him with an expressionless, cold gaze. He looked fit and healthy with his unwavering clear blue eyes, intimidating composure, and his usual dark, trim attire. Sherlock groaned to himself. It was the logical Sherlock, back to haunt him again.

"Where's Jim?" Sherlock asked weakly and tried to lift himself up from the tiled floor. The other Sherlock folded his arm and leaned against the sink.

"He's not here. He doesn't exist."

"But you're here."

The logical Sherlock smirked. _God, is that how I look like when I do that? I look like a complete jerk. _Sherlock thought to himself. The other Sherlock offered a hand but Sherlock slapped it away.

"I'm here to help you. You need me." The stern voice said.

"Don't try to reason with me."

"You're messed up. You're not thinking straight."

"Where's Jim?" The logical Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh please, don't tell me you-"

"_Where is he?_" Sherlock demanded and grabbed his projection's shirt and pinned him to the wall. "What did you do to him?" Hatred and desperation flared in Sherlock's unfocused eyes. The other Sherlock raised his hands to show that he meant no harm.

"Don't do this to me, Sherlock. We're friends, remember? I'm here to help you." The logical Sherlock pushed against the delirious Sherlock but he refused to release his grip.

"Help? Do you know how much I've suffered because of you?" He snarled through his clenched teeth. The other Sherlock just stared back at him with those cold eyes. "I need him."

"Sherlock, Moriarty is tricking you. Fight him, you've done it before."

"I'm sick of fighting!" Sherlock roared. The logical Sherlock shoved Sherlock away.

"Stop it, Sherlock! Stop it, right now!" He roared back at him with frightening demeanor. The dark figure towered over him. Sherlock pressed his back against the sink and reached his hand behind him to grab something he could protect himself with. The logical Sherlock grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and shook him violently. "Snap out of it."

"Shut up." Sherlock breathed and grabbed a razor from behind him.

"Moriarty is feeding you nightmares, Sherlock!"

"No, Jim's the one helping me get rid of the nightmares."

"Stop calling him like that!" The fully dressed Sherlock squeezed Sherlock's shoulders with surprisingly powerful grip. It felt like his skin was on fire. Sherlock yelled and thrashed the razor at his projection. The blade glided through the air and swiped across the other Sherlock's neck, right along the bottom of his left jaw line. It wasn't a deep cut but enough to make blood run freely down along the neckline. "You!" He exclaimed and thrust Sherlock to the side. He collided against the bath tub and hit the back of his head. The other Sherlock grabbed at Sherlock mercilessly. The blood seeped into his velvet shirt and a dark smear was growing on around the collar. Sherlock reached back and fumbled with the bathtub water. Cold water burst from the shower. The logical Sherlock pinned Sherlock to the floor. Sherlock tried to kick the man away but he was too weak and he ached all over the place. Every single muscle in his body felt like it was on fire. Sherlock squirmed and yelled in pain.

"Stop…!" He yelled but the other Sherlock didn't move. A drop of blood dripped on Sherlock's face.

"No, I'm not going to stop."

"Jim!"

"Stop calling his name!"

"Ji-" Sherlock's mouth was covered by his own bony hands and he was dragged up to his knees. The last thing he saw was his own emotionless eyes looking straight back at him, before he was lifted up and dumped into the back tub where cold water pounded on the unconscious body of Sherlock.

…

John was talking to Mrs. Hudson after his short visit to Sherlock's bedroom. She knocked on the door with her usual hoot.

"How is he doing?" She asked and handed John a basket of muffins. John thanked the land lady and offered here a cup of tea but she shook her head.

"No, I'm fine. I know you're caught up at the moment." John nodded.

"He woke up a while ago and I tried to make him eat but his body just rejects everything."

"Oh dear…" Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "It's not the flu is it?" John laughed weakly at this question. How he wished it actually was the flu.

"No," He replied. "Something nasty just got inside of him I guess." He remarked carefully. He didn't want to lie to Mrs. Hudson but he also didn't want to worry her too much. After a minute or two, Mrs. Hudson wished John luck and went back down stairs. John heard faint footsteps up stairs. Sherlock must have woken up. He poured some more water into the jar and held a freshly cleaned glass in the other hand. He treaded upstairs. He heard the noise of running shower as he opened Sherlock's bedroom door. He placed the jar and the glass down and looked at the abandoned infusion needle. He wished Sherlock would have called John to take the needle off him instead of just yanking it off himself. He swiftly changed the bed sheets. Then, John knocked at the shower door.

"Sherlock, do you have your change?" He called. He strained his ears. There was no reply. He knocked again, this time, more urgently. Perhaps he couldn't hear it over the running water. "Sherlock?" He called out. Still no reply. John frowned. His heart skipped a beat. He reached for the door knob and twisted it. It was unlocked. "Sherlock," John yelled and raced in through the door.

John's eyes widened when he saw the area. It was a complete mess. Tooth brush, towels and other toiletries were knocked off from the cabinet and were scattered across the tiled floor. John's blood drew away from his arms and legs as he saw blood smears on the white tiled floor. The shower curtain wasn't closed and cold water was running freely from the shower. John hurried toward the bath tub and his knees buckled when he saw Sherlock fully dressed and lying unconscious on the bath tub floor with a large cut on his neck. He was soaking wet and his clothes were drenched in ice cold water and smeared blood.


	11. Chapter 11

_*Wow, Ch 11 already? This story is starting to drag isn't it? Don't worry it's almost done!_

_Mitaya - hahaaa nice hypothesis ;) I can't say anything at the moment but all i can say is, it's close! _

_JForward - True! Yes, as you can see, I speak american english so please let me know if I'm getting too...well, american :) and I actually learned the "jerk" is american english, interesting!_

* * *

><p>John turned off the shower and grabbed a towel from the floor. He pressed it against Sherlock's neck and called his name. There was no reply. Sherlock's complexion had gone beyond white to an unhealthy shade of blue. John immediately realized what this meant. His instinct as an army doctor kicked in. John quickly climbed into the tub and pressed an ear against Sherlock's chest. He hoped to hear a faint thumping noise but there was none. The doctor then placed a hand in front Sherlock's nose. John squared his jaws. Sherlock Holmes was not breathing.<p>

Something in John's brain clicked and his mind switched to auto pilot. He was back in the field again, where he had no time to think. John was never a slow thinker, but when people's lives were on the line, everything was up to reflexes. His medical knowledge had to pop up in his head even before he conjured them. He sprang to his feet, jumped out of the tub, efficiently dragged Sherlock out and laid him down on the floor. A fresh trickle of blood ran from his neck but John ignored it. It was a flesh wound. The body was ice cold and his wet clothes matted against the pale skin. John kneeled beside Sherlock and placed the heel of his hand in the middle of his chest, another hand on top of it and interlaced the fingers. Then, he pressed down and released. He repeated this compression movement several dozen times for the next half a minute.

John cursed himself. He had completely underestimated the state of Sherlock's malnutrition. Calcium, sodium, potassium…Sherlock wasn't getting enough of it. Sherlock mentioned having chest pains earlier that day. The doctor also remembered the unnaturally quick pulse. Sherlock's heart had been racing like mad for hours and hours with an empty gas tank. Electrolyte imbalances caused the cardiac arrest. Why hadn't John put two and two together and consider the risk? He had taken care of Harry's alcohol problem before. As a doctor, John knew that withdrawal symptoms from alcohol can be very fatal, but morphine addiction? He heard of very few fatalities from morphine withdrawals. Most of them were caused by strokes and suicides. Set aside suicide, John never expected Sherlock to suffer from a stroke or heart attack. Of course, Sherlock was never the healthiest man alive but John knew that he had no heart nor liver failures or any other noticeable medical conditions. _Shame on you. _He told himself as he continued the chest compression.

He stopped the movement for a second, tilted Sherlock's head back and lifted his chin to open up the airway. He bent over Sherlock's face and pinched his nose. John took a deep breath and pressed his mouth against Sherlock's cold, slightly parted lips and breathed out. He checked Sherlock's chest elevate with his left eye. He drew his mouth away. He saw Sherlock's chest slowly sink. John pushed away the matted, wet curls. He cupped Sherlock's ice cold face and breathed out into his mouth again until his lungs ached. John lifted himself up and gasped for air. "Come on, Sherlock, please come back." He pleaded under his breath. There was no reply.

John went back to the compression movement again. The last time he did a CPR was when he was in Afghanistan. He knew from experience that pleading never helps. How many times had he done this to his friends in the field, how many times had he pleaded for them to breathe, only to find his hopes betrayed. John didn't hope for anything when he worked on Sherlock. He kept his mind as blank as possible and concentrated on what was at hand. Tears welled up in John's eyes but his blinked them back. After several more urging pushes, he adjusted Sherlock's head and pressed his mouth against the unconscious man's. He closed his eyes tightly and exhaled. Just when John thought of going back to the compression movement, he heard a sharp inhale and a weak cough. Sherlock's heart had started to move again. John suppressed his urge to collapse over Sherlock's drenched body in relief. Instead, he peered down at Sherlock with a straight business-like face. Sherlock took several gulps of air before he slowly opened his eyes. They were unfocused at first but swiveled toward John and locked his gaze.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

John asked firmly. Just because Sherlock had gained consciousness doesn't mean the threat is gone. He had to check if the victim could reply properly.

"John…" Sherlock breathed between gasps. John let out a sigh in reply. Sherlock tried to sit up but John held him down. The doctor gave him several more seconds for Sherlock to catch his breath and relax while he briskly dried Sherlock's face, neck, and arms. Only after that did John help Sherlock sit up. Sherlock was too weak to support his body so John placed his back against the wall.

"Stay there." He murmured as he ran back to grab a fresh set of clothes and a large towel. Sherlock scanned the mess with a blank expression. His body started to shiver. John returned shortly and helped Sherlock take off his shirt. The doctor dried the thin body with the large towel and cleaned Sherlock's neck wound with cotton. The two didn't utter a single word.

Sherlock was weak, dazed, and had a faraway look in his eyes but he still had the energy to pull on the dry shirt by himself. He stood up wearily and changed his trousers and undergarment while John fetched a glass of water. The wound on his neck had stopped bleeding. He slumped back onto the blood smeared floor. His eyes lazily drifted toward the razor abandoned in the corner of the room. Sherlock tried to make sense of the situation. Had he been hallucinating? How long had he been unconscious? Hell, how long had he not been breathing?

John returned and crouched in front of Sherlock. He offered the glass to him silently. Sherlock weakly grasped the glass but he didn't drink from it immediately. He stared back at John with his fatigued sunken eyes. John returned the gaze and waited patiently for Sherlock to drink. The army doctor's brows were slightly furrowed with concern. He seldom blinked and his eyes were focused on Sherlock. His mouth was drawn into a tight thin line and the posture was composed but Sherlock knew that John's hands would fly out immediately if Sherlock was in need of assistance. Sherlock raised the glass to his lips and tilted water into his mouth just enough to moisture his lips and tongue. Was he still hallucinating? Was this really John? How did Sherlock know that it wasn't Jim or his internal self again?

Now that the immediate threat was gone, John's mind slowly switched back to his usual self and questions started to erupt inside him again. How did Sherlock end up with the cut? What is the detective thinking right now? What _was _he thinking before he collapsed? Sherlock looked just as confused, except John made sure not to betray his confusion and tried to look calm.

"I…didn't hurt you, did I?" Sherlock asked slowly. His voice was slightly raspy and cracked. John shook his head.

"You gave me quite a fright though." He remarked gently. John's gaze wandered toward the cut on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock noticed and placed the glass down onto the floor.

"John," he began quietly. A pained, troubled look was on the detective's face. "I'm starting to lose control over myself." John took a moment to try to make sense of what Sherlock was trying to say. "Is that really you, John?" John didn't know what to say.

"I…yes, it's me." Sherlock looked unconvinced by this. He scanned John up and down.

"You're not…me are you?" A concerned look flashed across John's face. The more Sherlock spoke, the more worried he got.

"What?"

"You're not Jim, either?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock." John answered slowly. _Jim, there goes that name again. _He searched for a hint of delirium in Sherlock's eyes but they only showed fatigue and pain. John took a deep breath and decided to play along with Sherlock's troubling remark.

"Who did this to you?" He asked, indicating the cut. There was a slight pause as Sherlock broke his eye contact.

"I…did this to myself." John blinked. "…My other self." Sherlock added. John frowned.

"Who?"

"He's out here, John, he escaped my mind palace." Sherlock looked up toward the ceiling and then scanned the walls and flicked his gaze out toward the door and the corridor outside. John was completely lost. He gently held Sherlock's shoulders but Sherlock shrugged away from it.

"Don't," He blurted urgently. "It hurts."

"Sorry."

"You haven't seen Jim anywhere have you?" Sherlock asked casually. John's eyes widened.

"Sherlock, I think you should-"

"_Have you?_" Sherlock insisted. John closed his mouth and shook his head. Sherlock grunted and slowly got to his feet. He winced. His knees screamed and stung. Sherlock stumbled forward. John caught him before he completely lost his balance.

"Who is this Jim person?" He asked cautiously as he escorted the tall man toward his bedroom.

"Jim…Jim Moriarty." Sherlock answered blankly. An uncomfortable chill ran down John's body. "I need him, John." John didn't even ask for an explanation. He realized that Sherlock was right. He really was losing control over himself.

…

The next few hours were a nightmare for Sherlock and John. Immense pain in the abdomen attacked Sherlock early in the evening. When John came into the bedroom, Sherlock was writhing in pain in the middle of the bed, tangled in his bed sheets and sweating heavily. John was amazed how Sherlock managed to deal with the pain by just clenching his teeth together. He didn't utter a single audible moan or a groan. The moment he realized John had entered his room, Sherlock shook his head and twisted his face into an even more pained expression. He waved away John's hand and pushed him away from the bed. Then, he pulled the bed sheets up so it would conceal his whole body from the doctor's view. John understood the message fully and exited the room. He stood at the door worryingly and waited until the stifled groan of agony ceased.

John was slightly offended by how Sherlock firmly refused John's assistance or supervision while in pain. He felt mistrusted, both as a doctor and as a friend. The doctor in him itched to tend to Sherlock because suicide attempts are more likely to happen when the subject is under immense physical pain. The rest of him just wanted to do something to help Sherlock as a friend. Once the pain attack calms down, John would slip into the bedroom and wipe sweat away from the groggily lying man's face and give him something to drink to keep him from dehydrating. In times Sherlock's pupils are heavily dilated and in other times they are tightly constricted. His blood pressure rise and fall and so does his pulse. His breathing can be shallow and brisk in times, heavy and wheezy in others. In short, Sherlock was in a dangerously unstable state.

Waves of muscular pain and intestinal cramps came once in every one or two hours. As the hours flew by, Sherlock's exhaustion became more and more visible. John could tell that Sherlock was losing weight incredibly quickly. Every time he visited the bedroom, the man was becoming weaker and weaker. He spoke less. He barely reacted to John's words. He received a weak nod or a shake of a head at best. In other times it was mostly only a clouded eye contact or a twitch or a finger.

Despite the man's immense exhaustion, Sherlock refused to sleep. He would lie still with his eyes open for hours. He flinched and shivered in times. He moved restlessly in his bed. In other times, he bolted upright, paced around the room and retired back to his bed when the dizziness or the muscle cramps kicked in. John afforded something to help Sherlock go to sleep but he merely shook his head and stared at the ceiling. It was nearly two in the morning. It was one of the longest days John Watson had experienced in his life.

"Then would it at least be okay if I sit beside you tonight?" John asked wearily. Sherlock's eyes flicked toward John. His flat mate could tell from the look in Sherlock's eyes that it was clearly a no. "Okay," He muttered. "But call me right away if you need me. I'll be checking up on you once a while." And he left Sherlock in peace.

…

This wasn't Sherlock's first time combating drug addiction. He experienced in-house detoxication once and another at a rehabilitation center, but there were several inexperienced factors in this time's case which troubled Sherlock greatly.

The first disturbing factor was Jim. Sherlock has never experience so much of a psychological and physical pull toward Jim. Every single brain cell screamed for Jim, and the only way to see him again was another dose of morphine. Sherlock shook his head. _Jim is Moriarty. _ He tried to reason himself but the warm embrace and the soothing atmosphere Jim had provided for Sherlock was so different from the Moriarty in real life, that despite the exact same physical appearance, Sherlock refused to view Jim as an enemy.

Then there was his internal self which managed to pop into his real life. Hallucination or not, the logical Sherlock had power to manipulate Sherlock's actions. He even almost succeeded in killing Sherlock off. If someone asked which one was more dangerous, Jim or logical Sherlock, Sherlock would answer logical Sherlock without a doubt. He was an uncaring brutal machine that lived inside Sherlock's brain like a parasite. How his life would have been so simple if he didn't exist.

Finally, there was John Watson. Sherlock didn't have a flat mate during his drug addled days. John was the only proper friend Sherlock had, and he had been trying hard to keep John away from his past life. Sherlock knew John was a good doctor and a friend and he was also fully aware of the fact that John was itching to help Sherlock. Sherlock smiled to himself. Good old John Watson. He appreciated the concern but he just couldn't allow him to get too close. Besides, with his internal self popping around everywhere, John wasn't safe. It was lucky that it was Sherlock who had received the cut but imagine what it would have been like if it was John instead. The logical Sherlock had few or no emotions. If he thought reasonable, he wouldn't hesitate to use John to get to Sherlock.

_Where are you Jim?_

…

The very first time Sherlock took morphine, it was just a harmless experiment. He was in the middle of a research in narcotics. It was a completely impersonal, business-like motive. It was nearly a year later, when he deliberately injected morphine for a very, very personal motive. That was how it all began. It's ironic how Sherlock can't quite remember what had triggered him to turn to drugs and let it haunt him for the rest of his life. The logical Sherlock must have deleted it. Sherlock tried hard to remember. _What was it…when did it take place again? Ah yes, _Sherlock remembered the file Jim had shown him with other day in his mind palace. _East London. _

Sherlock strolled down the park just like he always did in sunny weekends. He took the usual route at his usual pace, but this time, he had company. Sherlock didn't understand why. She always stood beside him; she always supported him even if he didn't ask for it. Sherlock forgot her name. He can't remember, but he can remember when they met. It was when he was still in university. One day, Sherlock asked her why she did all this. Why did she follow the freak around? Why did she try to open up a conversation with him? Why did she struggle to keep up with his hobbies and interests? Why?

_Because I love you. _

Love, Sherlock pondered. He didn't understand it, he couldn't understand it.

_I want to know more about you because I love you. _

_Really?_ Sherlock thought. One glance at the girl and Sherlock knew enough about her. He didn't need love to see inside people's life. She wasn't a dull girl, and she was pretty. She had some moderate interest in fashion and had a quite feminine taste. She was also open-minded and had a good sense of humor. But what was her name? Sherlock forgot, or perhaps he never asked. It didn't really matter to him. Love never mattered to him.

He never invited her to the walk. She just invited herself over. At first Sherlock was annoyed, but seeing that she didn't mind being ignored, he left her alone and just treated down the park. Strange, what love would make people do... _They will tolerate anything for this thing called love._ Sherlock thought to himself.

This however, didn't last forever. Tolerance had its limit, even for love. Perhaps the girl thought Sherlock had a heart after all. Perhaps she thought that if she stuck with him for long enough, a special attachment would bloom inside Sherlock. She had failed to see that Sherlock was a man of pure logic. She was naïve. As her last attempt, she kissed him on the park bench. Sherlock just gave a slightly annoyed look at her, but nothing else. He didn't kiss back, smile, or even repulse. He just sat there and opened a book as if she didn't exist.

_Don't you love me?_

_No_

_But I love you. _

…

_Don't you like me? _

…_No_

_What's my name? _

_I don't know. _

_But we've known each other for two years. _

_Yes. _

_Don't you feel anything at all? Anything about me? _

_None at all. _

Desperate sobs turned into a devastated one and then, a slap flew across his cheek. She said things. Sherlock can't remember exactly what but she blurted out how it's amazing how he cannot feel anything. She gave him a chance. She thought he was human, but it turns out Sherlock was truly a freak, just like how they all say.

_It's like you're not alive, Sherlock. It's just your brain and nothing else. _

_Just my brain?_

Sherlock thought to himself. He wanted to ask, _what else are there in this world then? _Back to the girl but she was long gone and he never saw her ever again. The question was like a small seed planted inside of Sherlock. It started off as a small sprout in the recess of his mind but it gradually grew and its vines started to tangle and nag at his other thoughts. Curiosity started to torture him. That was when he came to the conclusion. _If I shut my brain down for a while, I can find out what she meant. _

…

John rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. It was almost 6 in the morning. Nearly 48 hours since Sherlock's last dosage. Hoping that his flat mate was sleeping soundly, he lifted himself from the couch and slowly climbed the stairs and cracked open Sherlock's bedroom door. It was dead silent. John peeked inside and saw Sherlock lying face up on the bed. His chest was rising and falling. John took a step in and froze at the spot.

Sherlock's eyes were open. He was staring up at the ceiling with a troubled look in his eyes, and from his light blue eye trickled a single tear. It rolled down his prominent cheekbones and disaappered somewhere along the jaw line. Sherlock Holmes was crying.

Sherlock seemed to be lost in deep thought. He didn't notice John. The doctor held his breath and slowly took a step back and quietly closed the door. He turned and leaned his back against the bedroom door and breathed in deeply. He had seen Sherlock cry before. They were all fake tears of course. Sherlock can manifest short gasps, bloodshot eyes and quivering lips in a second. He had used this method to trick many people, but John had never seen Sherlock really cry before. The closest he got was when they were on the Baskerville case when Sherlock had been unknowingly drugged with fear gas, but nothing was anything like that. Those were real tears. John knew it.


	12. Chapter 12

_And what happened when you shut down your brain? _A familiar voice asked in Sherlock's head. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He knew the chemistry of love. Elevated pulse, dilate pupils, and obsession. Irene Adler had demonstrated it for him just few weeks ago.

_But have you ever experience it? Did you understand it? _

…_No. _

Shutting his brain down was a strange unique experience. He stopped seeing things. He couldn't sense the vibrant details lurking among people anymore. It was as if he had lost a limb. It was a fresh, new sensation, but he never understood what the girl meant. Without his observation and logic, Sherlock was just another empty man. Nothing else bloomed inside of him. He should have stopped there. He should have given up. But he desperately wanted to know what it was that they all knew and he didn't. He kept on feeding himself the drug in hopes that something would someday, approach him and make him understand. And it did. _He _appeared in his head one day. Sherlock was meditating in his mind palace. Back in those days, it was half its present size and the files were more cluttered. Just when he was organizing them with his logical counterpart, a figure emerged out of nowhere.

_Hi, how are you?_

That was where things started to become more interesting.

_What was so interesting about it?_

_It taught me how to let go. _

Sherlock's mind was bursting with thoughts all the time. It's been like that ever since he was a child. Until he experienced the drug, it didn't really bother him. It was just how it was for him, but when he emptied his mind once, he realized what _ordinary_ was actually like. Boring, yes. Soothing, yes. And being ordinary wasn't so bad. Every time the effect of the drug ebbed away and his brain started whirring back to life, Sherlock wanted to run away. Suddenly he started seeing things again. Thoughts and ideas pounced at him out of nowhere. Small details nagged at him and it was as if everyone was talking to him over a megaphone. Everything was too loud, too busy, too vivid, and too obvious. His brain was in the way, he couldn't function like an ordinary person because he was too busy. God, how did he even manage to cope with this his whole life?

_And then you decided to destroy me. _

The voice said in a cold, accusing tone. Sherlock opened his eyes in a start and turned toward the voice. The logical Sherlock was standing at the doorway with a dark look on his face. Sherlock sat up and edged away from his imaginary counterpart.

"I wasn't going to destroy you. I just wanted you to take a break." Sherlock answered cautiously. The other Sherlock didn't change his expression. He merely gazed down at him with a steely look in his eyes.

"Nicely put, Sherlock." He commented sarcastically.

"Where's Jim?" An annoyed look flashed across the imaginary Sherlock's face.

"You don't need him."

"Yes I do." An awkward pause hung in the bedroom. The logical Sherlock took a deep breath and let out a sigh.

"You were doing fine without him for the past few years."

"Where is he?" Sherlock pressed. The other Sherlock bit his upper lip and bent over. Sherlock thought the man was going to grab his shoulders again and he flinched. He expected his long fingers to wrap around the base of his neck and shake him, but it didn't come. Instead, the logical Sherlock sat on the bed side chair and studied Sherlock with his sharp eyes. Sherlock waited for his counterpart to open his mouth.

"Alright, let me explain this to you nice and clearly." He started slowly. There was a hint of tiredness in his deep voice. "Do you know why I'm out here with you?" He asked. Sherlock frowned and shook his head. The logical Sherlock threw a disappointed look at him. It was one of those looks that an adult would make when taunting a child. "Come on, Sherlock. Use your damned head of yours." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tried to concentrate. It's been a while since he used his head properly. The gears turned slowly and threatened to give Sherlock another painful head ache, but the detective pushed and the wheels started to turn ungracefully. The logical Sherlock waited patiently. Sherlock's eyes lit up as he finally came to a conclusion.

"Jim's inside my head." He remarked.

"Yes, and in another words, he kicked me out of there." The logical Sherlock added irritably. "He's flooding your mind palace with water and tearing those files ups even as we speak." Sherlock laughed at this.

"Jim would never do such thing, he protects me."

"Then who the hell do you think is tearing that place down?"

"I thought you were." Sherlock said with a puzzled expression. The other Sherlock rolled his eyes and snapped back,

"Why would I flood my own house down, you idiot."

"I'm not an idiot." Sherlock growled.

"You bloody well are without me."

The two glared at each other for a full minute. It was the logical Sherlock who broke the eye contact. He slowly got to his feet again and walked toward the window. He peeked outside through a small crack between the curtains.

"Hmph" He snorted carelessly.

"What?"

"Moriarty's smarter than I thought." He replied flatly and turned toward Sherlock. He flashed a wicked smile at him. "He's got you cornered."

…

John was sitting at his chair, his head nodding by the warm sun light when he heard footsteps tumbling noisily down the stairs. He woke up with a start. At first he thought Sherlock had fallen down the stairs or something.

"What the…" He murmured when he saw Sherlock burst into the living room fully dressed. He still looked sick and his face was sunken as ever but there was certain alertness in his eyes that John hadn't seen in a while. Sherlock strode toward the window and he cautiously took a peek outside. Then, he hurried toward the next window and did the same. "What are you doing?" he asked nervously.

"Moriarty," Sherlock breathed and rushed to the other window. He craned his neck to look further. "He's got the press on us."

"What?"

"An anonymous tip saying that Sherlock Holmes may be ill…a tip saying that he's a drug addict. Wouldn't that make a wonderful story?" Sherlock said with a slightly irritated tone. John frowned. Was paranoia finally setting in on Sherlock? "I'm not paranoid or anything, by the way." Sherlock added as if he had read John's mind. John stared at his restless flat mate with a half opened mouth. It was good to see that Sherlock's sharpness had returned but he still wasn't looking well.

"Are you saying that the press is outside?" Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he beckoned John over to his side. John approached him hesitantly and craned his neck to see outside through the curtain crack.

"See that van over there and there?" He said and indicated an unfamiliar vehicle parked across the road. "That's been there since yesterday. And see that man walking down the road over there?" John nodded. "He's already walked past our flat three times in the past two hours."

"Jesus…" John breathed and looked up at Sherlock's pale face. Sherlock's attention was still pinned to the view outside. His eyes scanned the surroundings attentively.

"It's lucky I had a doctor for a flat mate. Imagine what the tabloids would have been like if you called an ambulance yesterday when my heart stopped. Just like movie stars and rock stars. 'Oh there goes another silly celebrity with a history of drug abuse!'" Sherlock blurted out comically. John realized how much he had missed the manic and slightly annoying Sherlock. However, he was well aware that Sherlock was not quite recovered yet. The way Sherlock pressed his right hand to his abs showed that the cramps and pain were still there. It was a surprise that he was standing at all. John also remembered that only a few hours ago, he Sherlock had been crying.

"Okay, Sherlock, I got your point. But you really should have a seat. You're still not well. You look battered." He gently pulled on Sherlock's black jacket and gestured to his chair.

"I know. That's the problem!" Sherlock exclaimed and as if on cue, their flat's buzzer rang. They both turned toward the door. Sherlock slapped his cheeks several times and turned to John. "How do I look?" John opened his mouth and closed them. Then he opened them again and answered uncomfortably,

"Horrible." Sherlock didn't seem to hear it. He slapped his cheeks again to add some color to his face. Then, he bolted down another flight of stairs and opened the door. John followed after him, still unable to understand where Sherlock's energy was coming from. The consulting detective opened the door swiftly. A casually dressed man with a cheap smile greeted them.

"Hi, is this Sherlock Holmes?" He asked. Sherlock straightened himself up and looked as in control as possible.

"Yes, are you a client?" The man offered a hand to shake. Sherlock did not take it.

"Actually, I'm from the-"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I don't take interviews. Have a nice day!" Sherlock said with an unnaturally friendly tone and slammed the door shut in front of the man's face. John was completely lost. Sherlock walked past John and climbed up the stairs wearily. It was as if Sherlock's energy had been sucked out when he opened the door.

"Why did you answer the door if you knew that he was from the press?"

"Because he works for Moriarty." Sherlock grunted as he reached the top of the stairs. "He was sent to check up on me. If I didn't the answer the door, he would have happily reported to Moriarty that I was sick." John entered the flat after Sherlock. Beads of sweat were starting to form on Sherlock's forehead again. "You wouldn't want to do that now, would you? It would be like begging for mercy." The temporal surge of adrenaline ebbed away and Sherlock was once again enveloped in exhaustion. Before John could answer, Sherlock's eyes rolled and he knees buckled. John yelped and jumped at his flat mate. He barely managed to catch Sherlock's limp arms before he collapsed onto the floor.

"Sherlock," John called as he dragged him toward the couch. Sherlock's consciousness had drifted away into his mind palace.

…

It was a catastrophe in here. The water level had risen so high while Sherlock was gone, that Sherlock barely had room to keep his head above water. He can touch the ceiling. The water was as cold and dark as before and it made Sherlock's body ache. His thighs and forearm was getting numb and he didn't know how long he could keep his head above water. Sherlock spat water from his mouth and called out,

_Jim!_

There was no reply. Sherlock couldn't see well in the darkness.

_Jim, I know you're in here! _

He yelled again. Sherlock opened his mouth to call out his name again when he heard a faint voice echo in the distance. He strained his ears.

_Sherlock!_

Sherlock turned toward his left and paddled clumsily toward the voice.

_I'm over here!_

The voice was more audible than before. Sherlock mustered his remaining strength to claw himself through the thick swirling water. He saw a faint shadow in the distance. He quickened his pace.

_For god's sake, Jim, what's going on here? _

Sherlock exclaimed at the figure as he panted toward him. Jim swam towards him and grabbed Sherlock's arm. A surge of comforting warmth ran through Sherlock. His teeth stopped chattering. It was as if the water around Jim had suddenly become warm. Sherlock could now see Jim's face clearly in the darkness.

_Oh gosh, it's so good to see you again. _

Jim wheezed. Sherlock nodded. There was no way Jim was going to harm Sherlock. No matter what logical Sherlock said, he knew that Jim was here to protect him. This whole mess must be some kind of a mistake. Surely, Jim can do something about it. Sherlock leveled his eyes with Jim's and said firmly,

_You need to get me out of here, Jim. _

The water level kept on rising. Their heads were almost touching the ceiling. A smile flashed across Jim's face. Jim didn't say anything. He just smiled.

_Jim?_

Suddenly, the warmth in the water started to seep away, as if someone had thrown in chunks of ice around them. Jim kept on smiling but his eyes widened.

_Oh I can't do that, Sherlock. _

Something suddenly grabbed Sherlock's legs and yanked him down. Sherlock opened his mouth and gasped but ended up sucking in water. The chilling sensation was back again. His lungs stung. Sherlock wanted to cough the water out but it was too late. The darkness enveloped him. Then, he wasn't in the water anymore. He was dry and he could breathe again. He could feel the wind gushing through him and there was a strange, discomforting sensation in his stomach. Sherlock suddenly realized that he was falling down into pitch black space.

Sherlock screamed in agony when his body crashed into the dark surface. He spat blood out from his mouth. His head pounded and he heard a screeching noise in his ears. His limbs were immobile and it was as if every single bone in his body was shattered. Even a twitch of a finger sent hot pain up through his wrist, arm and along his shoulder blades and spine. Every time he gasped for air, his lungs felt like they were going to explode. Sherlock couldn't lift his head so he swiveled his eyes wildly and scanned the area. He was back in his mind palace, except the water was gone and so were the drawers. Not a single scrap of paper was visible. The floor, walls and the ceiling were polished and pitch black. The lights were dim.

_Did you really think I was going to let you go that easily? _

A voice echoed. Footsteps approached toward Sherlock. Sherlock tensed his muscles. He couldn't move. Jim's face popped into Sherlock's view. The warm light in his hazel eyes were replaced by a wild blaze.

_Aw, are you hurt? _

A foot prodded Sherlock. The moment the shoes came in contact with Sherlock's skin, a stinging pain rippled through his body. Sherlock clenched his teeth. Then, there was another prod. Sherlock cried out in alarm. Tears welled up in his eyes and blurred his view.

_I'm asking you a question, Sherlock. _

Jim roughly kicked Sherlock in the stomach. For a second, Sherlock thought he was going to pass out from the pain. He half wished he would, but he knew he couldn't. He was already dreaming. He gulped for air and breathed desperately,

_Yes. _

Jim knelt down beside Sherlock and cradled his limp hand up. The motion was gentle but the touch sent another burning sensation through Sherlock. He couldn't even scream. He just squeezed his eyes shut and writhed in pain. His fingers twitched and his shoulder shook. Sweat rolled down Sherlock's face and it almost looked like he was crying.

_You want it to stop? _

Sherlock couldn't answer. He forgot how to use his vocal cords. He wheezed. Jim squeezed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock kicked his legs in agony, which sent a fresh new jolt of pain through his lower body.

_Come on. _

Jim chimed joyfully. It almost sounded like a person cooing at a kitten.

_Yes. _

Sherlock croaked. Jim let go of Sherlock's hand and let it fall on the floor. Sherlock screamed when his knuckles hit the surface. He twisted his torso in a clumsy attempt to crawl away from Jim.

_Shhhh…_

Jim hissed and cupped Sherlock's sweaty face with his warm hands.

_If you want it to stop, say my name. _

He whispered. Sherlock hesitated. His eyes stared weakly back at Jim. Sherlock was confused. What was going on? Was Jim helping him or was he hurting him? A bead of sweat ran into Sherlock's eye and it stung. He blinked. His head was still pounding and the muscles on his back felt like they were being peeled off.

_J…Jim _

He stuttered. Jim's lips curled up and his eyes twinkled. The pain still remained.

_Again _

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose.

_Oh for fu-_

He began to swear but Jim grabbed his shoulder and squeezed, just like how the logical Sherlock did in the shower room. A scream echoed in the black vast facility.

_Jim…Jim…_

Jim loosened his grip and placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead.

_Good, now you know that in here, I'm the only help you can get. _

The pain slowly started to ebb away. Sherlock shuddered and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

…

"Jim…Jim"

The tormented man finally relaxed when John placed a hand on his forehead. The creases in between his eye brows vanished and his short gasps slowed down. Sherlock was still murmuring Jim's name as if it was a spell to keep him safe from nightmares. The shivers slowly died down and Sherlock loosened his grip on John's sweater. Sherlock had grabbed the front of John's sweater and pulled him over with immense force, that it took great effort to keep from collapsing on to Sherlock's fragile body. The man's eyelids fluttered and they slowly opened.

"Jim?" Sherlock muttered again. John's face dropped.

"No, it's John." Sherlock closed his eyes again. He let go of John's sweater and let his hands drop to his side.

"John…" He murmured. "John." The doctor didn't know whether he ought to reply or just ignore Sherlock's delirious call.

"Yes." John answered. Sherlock breathed in deeply and opened his eyes again. He looked straight back at him and said this time, more firmly,

"John."

"Yes,"

"You…" Sherlock licked his lips. "You're..." John waited patiently. He slipped his hand away from Sherlock's forehead. "Wait," The detective said quietly. He didn't have to say any more than that. John placed his hand back on Sherlock's forehead.

"You're the one that…that helped me." Sherlock said with wide eyes as if he had just made an incredible discovery. John laughed.

"Of course, why wouldn't I?" Sherlock froze at the spot. He stared back at John with an incredulous look. His lips parted slightly. Then, his eyes dropped to his right hand knuckle where the bandage was still there. He slowly wrapped his trembling fingers around John's hand which was on his forehead, and gently pulled it away. Sherlock sat up on the couch and stared at his foot. After full three minutes, he slowly turned back at John and blinked.

"Thank you."

John nodded in reply. Then, Sherlock slung his feet off the couch and planted it onto the floor. He leaned forward and his expression darkened. Sherlock clasped his hands together and bit his lips.

"How are you feeling?" John asked and handed Sherlock a glass of water. Sherlock gulped it down in one go. He placed the glass on the table and answered,

"Good…good. How long was I out?"

"About three hours." Sherlock nodded. John watched as Sherlock's eyes bore into the floor. He knew that the detective was thinking about something frantically in his head. He wondered what it was. Sherlock seemed to notice John's curiosity. He looked up. A fresh light lingered in Sherlock's silver blue eyes. That moment, John knew that the Sherlock Holmes he knew had finally returned.

"John," he started with a low firm voice. "There's something I need to do."

* * *

><p><em>*Again, thanks for reading so far, hope you enjoyed! <em>

_Reading some of the reveiws really made me sweat because everyone's just so SHARP! For instance, numerous people pointed out how John didn't call the ambulance when Sherlock's heart stopped. _

_The moment I read that, I thought "Oh hell, they probably found out!" _

_I really do appreciate these reveiws because they help me stay on my edge and improve my writing ...but to be honest, I'm running out of ideas! (aaah) _

_So next up, is my final chapter of this story. _

_Sherlock's finally going to confront his issue with full help from John (not Jim!) _

_After this I'm thinking of writing an action-packed story with more mystery/ crime thriller elements, focusing on the relationship between Sherlock and DI Lestrade :)_


	13. Chapter 13

_*Sorry to keep you waiting!_

_This is my last installment of Relapse, I hope you like_ it!

* * *

><p>Sherlock started speaking slowly and steadily but as his explanation developed, his speech gained its usual speed and he started using long sophisticated words. John listened to every single one of his words intently and marveled at Sherlock's rapid recovery.<p>

"When a person dwindles into drug addiction, they succumb to it both physically and psychologically. You being a doctor must understand the mechanism of it very well." Sherlock was seated at his chair with his knees tucked in in front of him. John noticed that instead of aligning the fingertips together like Sherlock usually did, his hands were clasped together and were slightly shaking.

"In order for me to solve this problem, I must break away from the pull of these two elements. Time will automatically solve the physical issue. I've handled worse." Sherlock shrugged. Then he frowned a little and thought about what he had just said. "Then again, I've never gone into cardiac arrest so that comment may be slightly faulty. Well, that's not the problem. My main point is," Sherlock paused to take a breath. He raised his eyes slowly toward John.

"I must overcome the psychological aspect in order to prevent myself from relapsing again." John nodded. "This…this…is not an easy task." Sherlock sighed. "It's never easy. No matter how many times you've experienced it. It's like you, fighting with yourself. It knows your weakness, your desires…everything." Sherlock smiled to himself weakly. "Moriarty sure is smart."

"And a bastard." John added. Sherlock looked out the window. The sun was starting to set.

"I have a feeling that tonight is going to be a particularly rough night." John's shoulders tensed. "Are you ready?"

"Would it be dangerous?"

"Quite."

"Then I'm ready." Sherlock gazed back at his flat mate silently. His incredibly crystal blue eyes melted in with the orange flame of sinking sunlight and made his eyes almost look amber. Sherlock closed his eyes and pondered for a second.

"No, you know what, I can't let you-"He started but John cut him off with a firm voice.

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor. There's nothing you need to feel embarrassed ab-"

"If you think I'm too arrogant to show my weakness to you, you're mistaken. You've seen how I was at Baskerville… I learned from my mistakes." Sherlock lowered his eyes away from John. He bit his lower lip gently as he chose his words carefully. John remembered the night Sherlock had gone half wild with unknown rage and fear when he got exposed to the fear gas. Sherlock had rejected John's assistance and had snarled at him nastily. John was surprised to hear that Sherlock took the whole episode as his mistake.

"I'm afraid that I would hurt you." He croaked. John smiled.

"Sherlock, so far the only way you've harmed me is by depriving me of sleep." Sherlock shook his head.

"No, no, you don't get it...half of me still believe that I need the drug in order to survive._ Jim_ is me. He's as smart as me." Sherlock licked his lips uncomfortably. "And now I understand how he feels, and what he's thinking right now. John, you helped me stay on track for the past few days. If it weren't for you, I'd be long gone and Moriarty would have savored his victory by now. Now that I have realized that, Jim's also realized that you're a threat to him. He wants to get rid of you. Half of _me_ want to hurt you."

…

After the sun had set, Sherlock looked even more anxious. The tremble in his hands worsened and he started to shuffle in his seat and massage his joints. John offered to help him and Sherlock nodded at first but shook his head firmly as he changed his mind.

"I don't want to…grow too familiar with your assistance. Jim will get angry." He protested quietly. John ignored his refusal and stretched out his hands but Sherlock jumped to his feet and stormed away to his room.

…

Sherlock was barely able to stand on his feet. He stumbled down the endless black aisle and fumbled to open the drawers. He thought as hard as he could to remember where he had last left that file. He needed to find it and check before Jim came. He needed to see it with his own eyes. Sherlock rummaged through the neatly filed folders and pulled one out randomly. He scanned the contents and closed it briskly. He grimaced and grunted as he fought against the particularly annoying pain in his right shoulder. He leaned his body against the drawer to close it and awkwardly crouched down to check the bottom row when a voice called from behind him.

_What are you looking for? _

Sherlock turned around to see Jim standing across the aisle with his hands in his pockets. Jim's eyes still had that tempting warm glow and his smile was as gentle as ever. Sherlock blinked and reminded himself that that same person had tortured him just a while ago in the middle of his mind palace. Jim took a step toward Sherlock. Suddenly, a painful sensation erupted in Sherlock's abdomen, as if his intestines were being squeezed. The consulting detective clutched his teeth and fell on his knees. Jim took another step forward. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his stomach and bent over with a muffled groan.

_You're not thinking of anything stupid, are you?_

Jim cooed and advanced toward Sherlock again. The more the distance between them shrunk, Sherlock was enveloped in agony. Just when Jim was only a few paces away from him, Sherlock raised a hand in protest.

_Stop. _

Jim didn't listen. Sherlock panted heavily and tried to lift himself up to his feet but before he could, Jim roughly grabbed Sherlock's neck and pushed his head against the drawers. The smile was still etched onto his face. Sherlock screamed. The moment he came in contact with Jim, his eardrums burned and his eyes watered from the searing pain that erupted from the top of his head. He clawed for Jim's hands and scratched against it but Jim didn't seem to care. He just cocked his head to one side and widened his eyes.

_Sherlock, remember the time I saved you?_

Sherlock squeezed his eyes tightly and shook his head.

_Remember? _

Jim pressed on. Sherlock kept on shaking his head sideways. Jim tightened the grip on Sherlock's neck.

_Remember? _

…

The young man's coat was drenched in the rain and he was freezing cold, but that was the least of his problems. He was hurt and confused. Sherlock limped into his flat sluggishly and collapsed onto his knees the moment he entered through the door. The door slammed shut behind him. He stared at the wall across him with hollow eyes. How can he possibly be so foolish? Why couldn't he do the most obvious things in life? Suddenly Sherlock wanted to destroy everything that was in his house, including the violin. His mind was racing. He had to do something about it. Sherlock, after his encounter with Mr. Dalton, has acquired a skill to display false emotions and act convincingly toward others in order to blend in. He has learned to laugh merrily as he deduced his company's nasty habits and personal issues, to keep his mouth shut even if he itched to point out to people that their husband or wife is sleeping with someone, and to cry along with others even if he didn't feel anything whatsoever. It was working just fine. It was hard work and it usually left him very tired by the end of the day but he still managed to belong in a fairly pleasant company of ordinary people. It was all going so well, until today.

It was almost like an over blown balloon that just had no other choice but to pop. Sherlock's seen too many. He's heard too many, he's noticed too many things that he couldn't keep it in him. Sherlock was spending another night at the pub with his "friends", and was listening to their conversation, trying hard to display an interested look. He nodded, smiled, and leaned forward anxiously at the right timing, but his mind was darting back and forth through the crowd in the pub. Every single noise, laughter, looks, fidgets…any kind of movement jumped into Sherlock's consciousness. In matter of seconds, all the information were piled up in his head and had to be organized. He tried to shake it away. All he had to do was ignore it, but today, there were just too many people and distractions. He lost track of his company's conversation. Sherlock panicked and that was when he exploded. He suddenly stood up, knocked over his drinks and started to blurt how Jimmy was sleeping with Ed's girlfriend or how the man sitting diagonally behind them had just come back from a nasty road trip, or how Sebastian's sister was having a particularly hard time at school at the moment. He listed every single thing he had noticed that day and when he was finally done, Sherlock was heaving at the table while everyone stared at him wide-eyed.

It was only then, that Sherlock realized what he had done. He grabbed his coat and darted out of the pub and out into the hard cold rain. He can't remember what happened after that. It was quite blurry. He remembered running down the street and ducking into the alley way. He didn't know where he was heading but he just wanted to be alone, where nothing would make his head whirr. He roamed around in the cold wet darkness for nearly an hour before he somehow managed to arrive near his flat.

Sherlock lied down on the dry carpet floor on his stomach ad closed his eyes. Why couldn't he just stop thinking? All that hard effort to make friends and blend in had disappeared into nothing. He blew everything away that night. _Stupid, stupid._ He told himself. _What is wrong with me? _He dragged himself toward his bedroom. He was so cold and so tired. _Why can't you just empty your mind? _And just then, he realized that he had an extra stash of morphine kept in the shower room. He pulled off his coat and stumbled into the shower room…

…

Sherlock opened his eyes again as another figure that approached him swiftly and shook his shoulders violently.

_Wake up!_

He barked. It was the logical Sherlock gazing down at him.

_Come on, we don't have much time, get yourself together. _

The logical Sherlock wrapped his arms around Sherlock and heaved him to his feet. Sherlock slouched against the drawer and collapsed his head against its cool surface. The other Sherlock shook him again.

_Sherlock, listen to me. We don't have much time. Moriarty is going to come back anytime now. His control of the mind palace is weakening but it's still strong enough to be fatal._

The internal Sherlock grabbed the exhausted consulting detective by the scruff of his neck and shook him again.

_We have to find that file, remember the plan? _

Sherlock slowly lifted himself up and nodded. He stumbled sideways and opened a different drawer as the logical Sherlock supported his body. Sherlock shook his head and closed it. Then, he dragged his feet heavily toward the next aisle. Sherlock was sweating heavily by the time he reached the other end of the aisle.

_I can't find it. _

He wheezed and gulped for air.

_It must be here somewhere. Think, where did you store that file away? I know it's a long time ago but we need to narrow the area down or we'll never-_

_What file?_

The logical Sherlock snapped his head toward the voice. Jim had reappeared, but this time, he wasn't wearing his usual Westwood suit. He had the exact same attire as Sherlock's usual one, with the velvet shirt and a slim cut black jacket and rousers. They were all tailored to fit Jim's size. Jim pinched the front of his shirt and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

_How do you like it?_

Suddenly, Sherlock felt nauseated from the grotesque view.

_Fashionable _

The logical Sherlock replied in a sour tone.

_So,_

Jim boomed his voice and looked back and forth at the two Sherlocks.

_We're all back now are we? _

The logical Sherlock stepped in between the sweat drenched consulting detective and the ill-dressed consulting criminal. Sherlock closed his eyes and frantically tried to remember where he had left that file.

_Get out of here, Moriarty. _

_Oh I don't think that's something I can decide. It all depends on what Sherlock wants. _

Jim shrugged carelessly. Sherlock tried to block Jim's voice away and racked his head for some kind of a hint to help him fulfill his search. He dragged himself toward the next aisle. Jim took a step toward Sherlock but was shortly blocked by the logical Sherlock. Jim flashed a cheeky smile. Then, he struck.

The logical Sherlock had promised Sherlock that he would buy time until Sherlock found that file. Sherlock couldn't believe that after all the time he had used to organize this place; he couldn't remember the location of one damned file. It was such a long time ago when it happened, and he was too weak to use his brilliant mind fully. _When did it happen again? _Sherlock asked himself. He remembered that it was before he met John, but shortly after he met Lestrade. _Lestrade. Of course, how could I have forgotten about that man? _Sherlock's eyes widened as he dived for the aisle located on the far left. It was the very last place he would want to go in the current state, but he would have to risk it.

…

John monitored Sherlock's pulse and temperature once in every fifteen minutes as he watched the consulting detective groan and mutter gibberish in his sleep. He flinched and kicked in bed violently in times. He let out a couple painful screams and made John worry about Mrs. Hudson coming upstairs to check on them. Just when the doctor leaned forward toward Sherlock to wipe the sweat away from his forehead, Sherlock's eyes suddenly snapped open and his hands flew toward John and wrapped his long fingers around John's neck.

…

Just when Sherlock reached the aisle on the very far side of the mind palace, he heard a yelp from a distance. Jim was losing his control over the mind palace but that still didn't mean that the logical Sherlock could over power him. Jim grabbed the logical Sherlock's shoulders and slammed him against the drawer. The logical Sherlock kicked at Jim but the consulting criminal felt like he was made of steel. No matter how hard he struck, he didn't budge. He tried lifting him away but he was too heavy. Sherlock knew that it was only a matter of seconds before Jim knocked his internal self out and came running after him.

The consulting detective opened two drawers at a time and rummaged through the files. He hadn't visited this section in a very, very long time. They were bitter memories, the ones he wanted to throw away but were too large to be disposed. They were the type of files that Jim treasured the most. It was the memory of Sherlock's life as a complete junkie. He skimmed through some of the contents and winced. Unpleasant words popped into him like "over dose", "rehabilitation", "multiple charges", "fine", "excused", "daily monitoring", "danger night", "mixed addiction"… He shook his head and tried not to remember the details of each file.

_Being a naughty boy? _

A voice chimed from the distance. Sherlock ignored the footsteps closing in. Jim had gotten rid of logical Sherlock faster than he had anticipated. Sherlock littered files onto the floor and didn't care to put them back in chronological order. Jim's footsteps stopped.

_What are you doing there, Sherlock? Refreshing your memories? _

Sherlock opened another file near the end of the aisle and let out a sigh of relief. He found it. The title said _**2004 September-December. **_Sherlock opened the file and flipped through the pages. Yes, he knew it. It must be here somewhere…

Just then a hand clasped onto Sherlock's shoulder. He tensed his body and turned around.

_Did you find it? _

It was logical Sherlock. Sherlock let out another sigh of relief and turned back to the file.

_Yes, yes I did, it must be here somewhere…_

A drop of sweat traveled down the side of his face and splashed onto the file. Another seeped into Sherlock's left eye. He blinked the stinging sensation away.

_It was in mid-November I think. That was when I met Lestrade and…there, I found it. _

Sherlock tapped the page and handed it to his internal self. The other Sherlock narrowed his eyes and reached for the file He craned his neck as he scanned through the contents and looked up at Sherlock, who was panting heavily. A smile broke across his face. Suddenly, Sherlock knew something was wrong. Logical Sherlock never smiles like that. _Sherlock_ never smiles like that unless…

The file fell to the floor, and Sherlock was pinned to the floor.

…

John gawked and tried to pry himself away from Sherlock but the skinny, ill man was stronger than he had expected. The grip tightened. John pressed his hands against Sherlock, careful not to hurt his face.

"Sherlock…!" He wheezed and grasped at Sherlock's hands. Sherlock's eyes were covered in a veil of confusion and fear. "…It's me!" John lifted himself away from Sherlock and rolled off the bed. Sherlock didn't let go and the two toppled to the floor. John landed on his back with Sherlock on top. His hands were still gripped around his neck. The final breath of air in John's lungs escaped him when he hit the floor. His head pounded and his legs kicked the air frantically. He tried to wriggle out of Sherlock's weight but the consulting detective had his knees straddle around John and refused to let go. John looked up at Sherlock. Everything was becoming blurry.

…

Sherlock found himself face to face with himself. Their faces were merely an inch away from each other. His shoulders were pinned firmly onto the dark floor. Sherlock felt his strength seeping away, but he fought hard to keep his eyes opened.

_You don't have to keep pushing yourself. _

_I'm not…_

_You're afraid. _

_No…_

_You're afraid that no one will look at you if you stop. Isn't that why you have to keep working? _

Sherlock barely had the strength to shake his head weakly. His fingers twitched. He slowly reached for the discarded file on his right, careful not to attract Jim-in-disguise-as-Sherlock's attention.

_You worry that the only reason John or Lestrade or anyone else is there is because you're useful. _

_That's the truth._

The other Sherlock seemed mildly surprised by this reply and blinked down upon him. Then, he smiled.

_Trying to be tough are you? If you're with me, you don't have to do any of that anymore. You can just be yourself. _

Sherlock's fingers brushed against the corner of the file. He tugged it toward him slowly.

_You're tired. You want to be ordinary. That's what you always wanted. _

Suddenly, a smile broke across Sherlock's sweat drenched face. The other Sherlock furrowed his brow. Sherlock started to chuckle mockingly at his copy and the chuckle gradually grew into a cold laughter.

_Ordinary? Who wants to be __**ordinary**__? Oh Jim, Jim, how can you not understand the beauty and the joy of all of it? _

His reflection's face darkened.

_What?_

Sherlock grinned back at Jim. His eyes became manic.

_You really think that I work for a cheap reward… like acceptance, acknowledgement, and recognition? I don't care about John, or Lestrade, or the victims or my clients, or fame. No, no, what drives me to work is far greater than that, Jim. It's pure joy, the thrill of being above others. _

Sherlock snarled coldly at him.

_It's something no ordinary man can experience. _

…

"What did you just say?" Lestrade gaped at the young, skinny man with an incredulous look. Sherlock Holmes, who was now frequently coming in and out of the drugs division, had suddenly darted from the other side of the office and stormed into the homicide division. His eyes were droopy and he swayed, he was intoxicated and looked like a complete drunk, but what tumbled out from his mouth was incredible. Sherlock tapped Lestrade's forehead with his long index finger and leaned over Lestrade's desk.

"I said," He slurred. "You got the wrong man, you idiot. Obviously from the ketchup smear on his shirt, you can tell that he's telling the truth. He has an alibi."

"But…you don't even know the details of this case!"

"I've heard enough from the room next door." The young man snapped. An officer approached Sherlock from behind and grabbed his arm. "Let go of me. I still have a few words to say to this idiot." Sherlock growled. Normally, Lestrade would let the security officer escort the young man away and dismiss him as a deranged junkie. Then, he would drop a complaint to the drugs division to keep their eyes on their men but this time, Lestrade held his hand up in protest.

"Wait," he looked into Sherlock's eyes and studied him. "What else have you got for me?" Suddenly Sherlock Holmes's eyes lit up as if something had clicked a switch in his head. He straightened up. He wasn't swaying anymore. The effect of the drug had suddenly evaporated from his system. That was the beginning of Sherlock's life as a consulting detective.

…

The strength in Sherlock's limbs returned as a look of dread spread across the other Sherlock's face. Sherlock pushed the form away and got to his feet. Hi body felt lighter, the pain started to ebb away. Jim took a step away from Sherlock and slipped into the next aisle.

_I can't believe you tried to make me believe that rubbish. Though, if it weren't for that file, I would have been completely fooled. _

Sherlock called out as he tracked Jim down. He saw a glimpse of a shadow at the very end of the hall.

_Me wishing to be __**ordinary**__?__That was years ago, Moriarty._

He dashed after Jim.

_Work is all that matters to me now. The others are just bonuses. I keep them around so that they can ooh and ah at my work._

The lights flickered and the floor started to lighten up. He saw Jim sprinting down away from the bright light. Sherlock smiled He got him cornered. He darted after the man and caught up with him easily. Jim was back into his original form, with his Westwood attire. His hazel eyes were wide with surprise. Sherlock threw his hands at Jim's neck and tightened his grip as the two toppled toward the floor.

…

John's eyesight grew darker and his knees felt like jelly. He couldn't raise his limbs up anymore. He was slipping away. He choked out loud and wished Sherlock would snap out of it. He tapped his fingers against Sherlock's wrist. He closed his eyes. His lungs felt like it was about to explode.

…

Jim was slipping away. Sherlock grimaced as he tightened the grip. Just when he was about to lean his body weight onto Jim's windpipe, the lights flickered violently above and he saw a flash of John's face instead of Jim's. Sherlock widened his eyes and in surprise and his hands jerked to let go but he shook his head and held on tightly. Jim was playing a trick on him. He couldn't fall for it. Not again.

_SHERLOCK!_

A voice exclaimed and someone grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and violently flung him to the side. It was the logical Sherlock. Sherlock gaped at him and shoved him away.

_What are you doing?_

He yelled and scrambled toward Jim but froze. He was gone. Sherlock looked around. The mind palace was back to its original sate. The lights shined brightly above and everything was white. Everything was silent.

_Moriarty's gone, Sherlock. That was his last attempt to hurt you. You almost fell for it._

…

John wheezed in gulps of air and coughed. His vision returned and he felt a sudden rush of noise in his ears.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed and jumped off him. "Oh, God, John, I'm so sorry, you okay?" John wheezed for a few more seconds with a red face before he rolled to his side and grumbled,

"Fine, fine…"Sherlock stared down at his flat mate and then at his hands. Then, he started to pace around the bed in a mild state of panic.

"I knew I shouldn't have…I should have…if I haven't"

"Sherlock,"

"The last time I did…"

"Sherlock"

"I've never had a flat mate before and shouldn't have…"

"Sherlock"

"Moriarty knew…."

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled and grabbed his flat mate's long arm. Sherlock stared back at John with a half surprised, half apologetic look. It was almost funny to see Sherlock panic. What was even more incredible was how Sherlock had fretted so wildly when John was harmed. It was good to know that Sherlock had caring feelings after all. "I'm okay." He said. Sherlock blinked. His eyes searched John's face silently. John's neck was slightly red but not enough to leave a bruise. He pointed at it with a blank expression.

"Want me to call an ambulance?" He said jokingly.

…

Three months later, Sherlock treaded down the long lines of his treasured archive randomly, but he stopped his feet when he came to an unfamiliar row.

_I decided to make some additions to our collection. _

His other self said as he popped into view. Sherlock opened the drawer and peeked inside. His eyes widened with surprise.

_That's… very unlikely of you. _

The other Sherlock shrugged.

_After our most recent __**events**__ I thought some improvements can be made around here. _

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. The other Sherlock nudged his chin at the drawer.

_Sentiment can be dangerous but having some affection might not be so bad after all. Besides, after all they've done for you, they deserve your respect. _

Sherlock grabbed a file and looked at the title. They simply said in bold letters; _**Friends.**_


End file.
